


Seven Hells

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 103,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean and Cas, along with the lords of various pagan underworlds, tangle with Crowley over the Word of God.  But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, there are some OCs here. They're mostly based on mythological figures, and they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else. Oh, and since people always ask, yes, I've written this all the way out to the ending. It still needs editing, but mostly it needs to get broken up into chapters. My estimate is around 80K words, and probably around 15 chapters. I'll try to update 2/3 times a week until it's all posted.

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 1 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 80,000  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. 

 

_“This might be Norway's first ever gold medal in this event,”_ came the announcement over the PA.

“What sport are we even watching again?” Peggy leaned back in the bleachers and used her broad-brimmed hat as a fan.

“Show jumping,” said her friend Sue, reading from the program.

“ _Show_ jumping? Like a Broadway show? It would be more interesting if the horses formed a kick line.” Peggy watched man and horse jump and trot and canter around the course with a great amount of disinterest while her friend eagerly thumbed her iPhone. “You sure you don't wanna get over to team diving? It's the men's semifinals.”

“In a minute. You know what it says on this guy's Wikipedia page, Pegs?”

“Yeah? Some Olympic drip has a Wikipedia page?”

“This guy is not only their team captain, he's a successful businessman, and Norway's most eligible bachelor.”

Peggy laughed and sipped at her plastic cup of watery ice tea. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“He’s not gay, Peg. He's got TMZ entries. He's been dating like just about every princess and actress and society chick in Europe.”

Peggy focused her eyes back on the course. “Why have _I_ never heard of him?”

The rider had finished the course and he and the horse were now off to the side, eagerly awaiting the score. A round of cheers went up as the electronic scoreboard flashed. Sue squinted at the rider through her field glasses as he gave thumbs up. “He kinda looks like Dr. Hunt. You know. From Dr. Sexy MD?”

Peggy snatched the binoculars away from her friend and stared as well. Yes, he did look like the actor – whatsisname, some British guy – who played Dr. Hunt: tall and 40-ish, with icy clear blue eyes and close cropped reddish hair and beard. 

And then Peggy sat back and snorted. “Well, now he's dating Liz Taylor, I guess.”

“What?” Sue grabbed her field glasses back and took a look. “Dr. Hunt” had dismounted, and a dark-haired woman had emerged from the crowd to talk to him. Peggy was right, she was dressed like some kind of 50s movie star. She was wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses, but took them off to reveal what, even from this distance, you could tell was a stunning pair of blue eyes. She extended a delicate hand towards the rider, and they shook and began to chat.

“Dr. Hunt’s being chatted up by Liz Fucking Taylor?” grumbled Sue. “Fuck me.”

“You wanna get over to the men's diving?” asked Peggy, who was already standing. “Speedos!”

“Sure.” Sue departed with her friend, leaving the glossy equestrian program sitting on the bleacher, where it promptly blew away.

 

"Exactly how many of these fucking tablets are there?" Dean demanded, his knuckles white, gripping the steering wheel. He knew the answer pretty damn well, as he was currently staring down at the hard-won handwritten list, sitting on the upholstery between him and his brother. Compiling the list had cost them: in time and blood and even Cas's currently sputtering angel mojo.

"Well," Sam, sitting beside him, allowed. "Evidently, there's a compendium."

"And what does that mean, Mr. Wizard?"

"A compendium is a collection-"

"I know what the word compendium means!" Dean fumed. Sam gripped the door handle as they hit a corner way too fast, but he knew enough not to bring it up when his brother was like this. Dean rambled on. "First there was one tablet, and then there's two tablets, and then there's a tablet and a half.... And now we got a fucking grocery list? Pick up some beer and chips and a Tablet of The Lord? Maybe they'd start selling the fucking things at 7-11! We could just grab a six-pack when we buy gas.”

Sam counted his lucky stars as Dean's tirade was interrupted by the soft flutter of wings. "Hello Dean. Hello Sam."

"Cas! How many fucking tablets did your father write, anyway?"

Castiel answered from his place in the back seat. "Metatron left a compendium. That means...."

"I KNOW WHAT A COMPENDIUM IS."

Cas was thrown to the side as the Impala rounded another corner about five miles faster than the engineering really allowed, thus sending the back wheels into a kind of slalom. Cas shot an inquiring glance at Sam, who shrugged sympathetically.

"My father could be ... prolix," Cas attempted. Sam tried desperately to hide his smile.

"Prolix? God was on meds?" said Dean. “Great, the Lord is a manic depressive.”

Cas looked again to Sam, who was now quivering with silent laughter. The angel cleared his throat. "The repository is right ahead," Cas told them. "I sense that something is happening in the vicinity."

"Something good, or something bad, Deanna Troi?" asked Dean. Cas blinked in confusion. "Knowing our luck, let me guess...." But he didn't have to guess, as it was pretty clear when they rounded the last bend that the parties casually milling around the ancient church weren't entirely human. At least, not any more.

"Fucking Crowley," muttered Dean. "Fucking fucking fucking son of a bitch."

"I could not have put it so eloquently," stated Cas. Sam looked back, but could see no sign the angel was anything but sincere. Cas was thrown forward, as was Sam, when the car screeched to a halt. Cas recovered himself quickly. "Since we are obviously late on the scene, I'd suggest that I deal with the beings outside, and you and Sam proceed inside to gauge the situation?"

"Can you handle them all, Cas?" Dean had shut off the engine and then twisted all the way around to look Cas in the eye when he said it. Cas putting himself on the line had become a ... _thing_ between the two of them since the angel had limped back from Purgatory. He'd been having issues with his mojo, that was true, but there was also an undercurrent there. Sam, for his part, tried to avoid getting tangled up in the profound bond as best he could. 

Cas's eyes seemed to go out of focus, and he squinted, like he was either peering at something on the celestial plane, or preparing for a gunfight against Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. Then his eyes were back, locked with Dean's. "Yes," he finally said, in a tone that brooked no arguments. “I can handle them all.”

More eye-lock. Dean was the first to blink. "Sounds like a plan,” he said gruffly. Then Dean was out the door, not waiting for Sam's opinion. Hearing the whisper of wings, Sam looked back and realized Cas had already split as well. Sam hurried after Dean, trying to put aside the worry that there seemed to be an awful lot of demons hanging around, whereas they had only one seraphic buddy. He focused instead on what they might encounter inside as they ran up the church steps.

He didn't have to wonder for very long: something blindsided Dean the moment he stepped into the vestibule. Sam heard a thump and a skid as one of Dean's many hidden weapons went flying off.

"So much for sacred ground," muttered Sam as he rushed to pull the dude off his brother. He jerked the guy's head back and Dean decapitated him. Two more attackers rushed in. The demon-killing knife and Dean's axe had them after a brief scuffle. 

The brothers rushed into the nave to confront a veritable demon cocktail party milling around the church. Dean pointed. The tablet was sitting right out in the open up on the altar. 

Demons tend to be stupid creatures, but not quite that stupid, so the demons at the altar hadn't actually grabbed the thing yet. They were frowning at it, looking around nervously (if demons can ever be said to be nervous), as if they couldn't quite believe snatching it would be this easy.

Sam and Dean broke into a run, tearing towards the altar, but weren't even halfway up the aisle when one of the milling mooks spotted them and thrust a hand out towards them. The psychic blow tripped Sam, but hit Dean full force, sending him careening over the pews and smacking into the wall. He crumpled to the ground. Sam recovered his footing, hoped up on a pew, ran the guy down and tackled him before he could recharge. After a couple moments of mad grappling, Ruby's knife hit home, and the demon was snuffed out with a whiff of sulfur. Sam scrambled to his feet and began rushing the altar again, only to get decked by another demon using The Force. Sam fell flat, the wind knocked out of him, cursing that fate had not at least granted him a cool lightsaber to deal with this kind of shit.

He grabbed the back of the pew and once more forced himself to his feet, just as one of the demons up front chanced grabbing for the tablet.

All of a sudden, there was a redheaded girl standing there. She looked like some kind of art student, as she was clad head to toe in black thrift store finds - black shirt, black scarf, black skirt, black leggings - and then something Sam had never ever understood, a couple of big steel toed boots. Why would you wear a dress with a pair of lumberjack boots? Seriously, did girls think that was attractive? 

She also held two small swords, one in each hand. She was sticking the point of one under the throat of a mightily amused demon: the one holding the tablet, Mr. Grabby Hands.

"I am Ruth, Acting Guardian of the Tablet, three hundred twenty-second of the blood. Yield ... Or die."

The demon's baffled look turned malignant. "Fuck off, bitch," he said, waving a hand to blast her away.

She somehow ducked the smiting force, but stepped back a pace and sighed, saying to no one in particular, "Dammit, I warned him! Why do they never listen?"

The demon scowled and held up a smiting hand once again.

And then Ruth kicked him. In the neck. And Sam figured out what the deal was with the steel-toed boots.

While Sam stood there, sore and still slightly stunned, she stuck the downed demon in the chest with one of her blades. The sword was evidently magical, like Ruby's knife, as light emitted from the demon, who promptly burnt out and died. But Ruth was already off, leaping over the altar and sticking a couple more stunned demons with the business end of the swords. 

Sam gave up any thought of assisting her when he heard his brother moan and stir, so he ran over to help Dean to his feet. "Tablet?" Dean muttered, spitting blood.

"Uh, I think Little Red's got it," Sam told him, pointing towards the chancel, where Ruth, now moving like a miraculous demon-smacking art college whirlwind, was sticking two henchmen at once. The demons had wised up somewhat, and had stopped rushing her headlong, but it was still more of a massacre than a fight. "Huh," said Dean. "So they got a ninja chick in combat boots protecting it?"

The attacking party had now been reduced to one guy, who stood fairly quaking while Ruth held him by the collar, sword pushing at a pulse point on his neck. "Congratulations, you're last demon standing" she told him. "So what you're gonna do, you're gonna toddle back to Crowley, now, and tell your boss what happens to light-fingered idiots who come too close to my tablet. Understood?"

The demon nodded, a thin trail of blood leaking out from beneath the blade.

"Now!" she barked, and suddenly the dude threw back his head and vomited a great deal of foul-smelling black smoke. And then his body crumpled at her feet, a marionette with cut strings. She crouched down and checked his pulse. Dean patted Sam on the shoulder, and the brothers approached the altar. 

"Dammit! Why do they never listen? I told them, 'yield or die.' I mean, you heard me, right? 'Yield or die.'" She stood up and looked at Sam and Dean, a pleading expression on her face.

"Yeah, I heard," said Sam, noticing that, for absolutely no reason, random bits of her hair were dyed blue. Art school. "Is that guy a goner?" he asked, pointing to the body at her feet.

She nodded sadly. "Poor bastard. It used to be, sometimes they'd wake up. Now, look at the mess I gotta deal with." She waved an arm, indicating all the downed demons that littered the floor.

"You the protector of this tablet then?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I'm Ruth, the Acting Guardian of the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar. Blah blah blah...."

"Dean. This is my brother, Sam."

"Hey. Oh! Are you the Winchesters?" The brothers nodded. "Cool. I've heard of you."

"What exactly do you mean by _acting_ guardian?" asked Dean, narrowing his eyes.

"Acting guardian. Yeah. Long story." She shoved the swords into her belt, which was, unsurprisingly, black. "Hey you guys wanna beer?" She was wandering into the area in back of the altar.

Sam hesitated. "Should we check on Cas?" he asked Dean, who nodded.

"Your angel? No worries. He's fine," sang Ruth. "He's probably on his way." Ruth crouched down and opened the door of a mini-fridge tucked into the sacristy and grabbed an armload of beer bottles. She came back, dumping them on the altar beside the tablet, and pressed two towards the brothers. She then sat down on the altar beside the tablet, propping her feet up on a dead demon's body as she untwisted the cap and flung it away.

"You know," said Dean, who stood uncomfortably holding a beer bottle, "you could put down salt lines and warding signs to keep those guys away."

Ruth heaved a sigh. "Eh. I put up a salt line, they break it. Draw a sigil, they scratch it out. That magical stuff's pretty useless, you ask me. I'll tell you what Crowley understands. He understands getting his ass handed to him."

"Sam! Dean!" It was extremely weird seeing Cas run, but that was exactly what he was doing right now, galloping between the pews, coat tails flowing in back of him like wings. He stopped short when he realized he was surrounded by many, many dead demons and two very live brothers.

"We're OK," Dean told him, waving a beer bottle for emphasis as the angel craned his neck in confusion. "You deal with the bastards outside?"

"Yes. There were many of them, but-"

"No worries. They've been taken care of," said Ruth, waving a hand. "You wanna beer, Mr. Angel?"

"Castiel," said Cas.

"Wanna beer, _Castiel?_ " asked Ruth, who was already up, pressing a bottle into the confused angel of the Lord's hands.

"So, you were telling us how you got to be guardian," Dean pressed.

Ruth settled herself back down, and, now that Castiel was accounted for, Dean seated himself on a front pew and opened his beer, although he avoided using a demon as a footstool. "I'm basically the last living member of my bloodline. I mean, the last one who's come of age. So the job sort of fell in my lap. Unfortunately, my résumé isn't quite up to snuff." Ruth raised an eyebrow.

"How is that?" asked Sam, who had started to untwist his beer cap. He took a sip. Good stuff, not the Pabst Blue Ribbon crap he was expecting from a hipster Guardian.

She snickered. "You need a penis. Evidently. So I'm keeping the chair warm. At least until one of my male cousins grows up and takes over from frail little me."

"So. How did your _family_ get the job?" asked Dean.

"Oh, that part is easy!" She turned to Cas, who was still standing, somewhat flustered, holding an unopened beer bottle, and gave him a "come on" gesture. "Hey. Try and smite me. Go ahead."

Cas looked at Dean, and then back at Ruth, who grabbed his empty hand and smacked it on her forehead. "Come on! Smite away!"

Cas seemed to check with Dean once more. Dean shrugged. Cas looked back at Ruth, steeled himself, and then closed his eyes, opening them again in a moment. He seemed nonplussed to see Ruth still sitting there, completely un-smitten, grinning at him. He scowled. He set the beer bottle down on the altar, repositioned his hand and shut his eyes again. Nothing. Then he glowered and slammed both hands on her forehead and actually grunted.

"Cas!" said Dean, grabbing the mightily frustrated angel under the armpits and hauling him back a pace or two. "Enough with the smiting.”

"See?" Said Ruth, slapping her forehead. "Smite proof!"

"What the hell?" asked Dean.

"I got the mark." Ruth began to roll up her sleeve, revealing something that looked like an elaborate tattoo on the underside of her forearm.

"You're a Deatheater?" asked Dean.

Ruth howled with laughter.

"This is the Mark of Cain," said Cas, who had stepped forward again to peer curiously at her. Ruth offered up her forearm, and he took it up, running a thumb over the mark. "I can't remember the last time I beheld this," he muttered, voice filled with wonder.

Dean once again pulled Cas off Ruth. "Don't grope the guardian." Cas, as he so frequently did, looked confused.

Sam scoured his memories. "The original murderer. So, angel mojo doesn't work on you?"

Ruth nodded. "Angel. Demon. Witches. Vampires. Voldemorte. What have you. We're all immune to magic."

"So how did all your male relatives end up dead?" asked Sam. "I thought the mark prevented people from killing you?"

"Another thing your Bible did not quite get right," Cas noted. He picked up the beer bottle and untwisted the cap, and then sniffed at it curiously.

Ruth nodded. "Yeah, it just promises sevenfold vengeance if you do kill one of us. You think a demon gives a shit about that? You behead us, we’re still just as dead. Anyway, I've got some cousins, it's just they're all underaged at the mo'. They're going through training, so I imagine they'll duel to the death or something to claim this position.”

“To the death...?” asked Dean as Cas took a big swig of beer.

“Hey, you guys wanna see a magic trick?” asked Ruth. She pulled a large gold coin out of her pocket, and then made a big show of palming it and then rippling it back and forth over her knuckles.

“Is it an enchanted coin?” asked Cas after she had pulled it out of his ear.

“It's a magic trick, Cas,” Sam assured him. “I mean, not real magic. Like magician magic. Uh....”

Everyone suddenly turned, weapons raised, as a new presence materialized in shadows of the room. He was tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed, although it was difficult to make out his facial features in the dimness.

Ruth spun around, but then immediately lowered her swords. "Oh, Bibi, it's you. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I saw you outside," Cas told the new being. “You helped me.” Dean stared at Cas, and then turned to stare at the new guy.

Bibi nodded. "Yeah. I saw you as well, engaging the demons, mate. I realized at once that you didn’t need any help, but thought you wouldn’t mind if I were to smite one or two myself." He spoke with a British accent.

"Your assistance was much appreciated," said Cas.

"Sri Vibhishana," said the dark man, giving a slight bow. "At your service."

“Castiel,” said Cas. “And my friends, Sam and Dean Winchester.”

"OK, you two, get a room," Dean muttered. He received a glare from Cas.

Sam looked Bibi up and down. "You're a demon."

"Bibi's a Rakshasa," Ruth corrected.

"Near enough the same thing," smiled Bibi, seating himself in a dark corner near the altar. "What’s important here is that I am not one of that lot." He waved a hand, indicating Crowley's ex-minions.

"I told them, 'yield or die!' I told them." Ruth tossed him a beer.

"They never listen," Bibi commiserated, catching the beer one-handed. "Pity. For them."

"I bet if I were a _guy_ they would listen!”

"So wait just a minute," Dean scolded. "You're guardian of the Word of God, and you're working with a demon."

Ruth and Bibi exchanged a glance. Sam noticed there was absolutely nothing surreptitious about it. Ruth nodded. Bibi sat back in the shadows, or perhaps the shadows grew to enfold him. "We have, you might say, a shared interest." The demon's face was lost in the dark, but you could easily see his smile. His teeth were straight and white.

"Don't underestimate Crowley," Sam told them. "We've made that mistake before."

"Pffft. Crowley," grumbled Ruth, who made an obscene gesture.

Dean took a large gulp of his beer. "Hey. He's a douche, but he is the king of hell."

"Crowley serves as the current regent of _a_ hell," Bibi corrected him. "My family would have words with the little wanker."

Dean shot a confused glance at Sam, who only shook his head.

"Could we ask a favor of you?" said Sam. Ruth nodded. “We have the prophet, Kevin, under our protection. Would you mind if we brought him in to take a look at your tablet?”

Ruth shrugged. “Sure thing, bring him by. I'd be interested to see what the stupid thing actually says. Would be funny if it's all a pumpkin pie recipe.” Bibi, drinking beer in the shadows of the corner, chuckled.

 

Cas had winked out to give the premises a final inspection, so Dean and Sam walked down the front the stairs together.

“I guess we can cross this one off the list,” Sam told Dean.

“Whaddya mean?” Dean grumbled.

“I meant-”

"Son of a bitch!"

Sam stared at his brother, who had stopped dead, patting his coat. "What is it?"

"One of my knives," grumbled Dean. 

"Dude, you’re a walking silverware drawer. Probably slipped out when that first guy decked you," said Sam. “I think I heard it.”

Dean was already running back up the steps. "I'll just grab it and come back out." Sam shrugged and stayed put as Dean re-entered the church.

Dean spotted the glint of the knife right in the entryway. He crouched down to retrieve it. He inserted it back in his jacket and turned towards the door. He paused. There were noises coming from within the church. He walked to the vestibule doorway. The door was ajar. 

The sound turned out to be dance music. Old fashioned stuff, like you might see WW II couples dancing to.

And, visible up by the altar, Ruth was dancing. With Bibi. They both looked like people who knew how to dance too, not just hanging off each other, but doing real steps. Dean rolled his eyes. Show-offs.

And then the music slowed.

Bibi dipped Ruth.

And they kissed.

“Son of a-”

Wings fluttered. “Dean.”

Dean instantly had a hand over Cas's mouth. He walked the angel to the door and outside before he removed it.

“Dean?” asked Cas.

Dean gestured back towards the door. “Great. We can add in forbidden love to the mix.”

Cas peered at Dean. “Why should love be forbidden?”

“Because she's a human and he's a demon! You know, like Romeo and Juliet?”

“Did you actually read Romeo and Juliet?” Sam, who was waiting at the bottom of the steps, asked.

Dean shook his head. “No, but I saw the Leo DeCaprio movie.”

“What's going on, anyway?” asked Sam, looking back and for the between Cas and Dean.

“Those two, Ruth and Bibi-whatever, are involved. Like a couple. Like, a _couple_ couple!”

“Yeah, I got that,” said Sam.

Dean rounded on him. “What? You knew they were doing the nasty?”

Sam shrugged his wide shoulders. “Duh. It was kind of obvious.”

“Not to me. Damn. We should have ganked him.”

“Why?” asked Cas.

“Dean. The guy is on our side,” Sam pointed out. “And it's not as if we've got a ton of allies right now. _Living_ allies.”

“Sammy, it's a girl and a demon! It's not gonna end well.”

Sam crossed his arms and glared down at his brother. “Dean, are you worrying about the tablet, or their relationship.”

“Well. Both. But mostly the tablet.”

 

Dean paused in the bathroom, wondering why his pajamas always seemed to get torn just at the moment they were finally getting comfortable. He put his foot up on the toilet seat and stuck a finger into the rip that ran across the knee.

He emerged from the bathroom. "Hey, do I look sexy in my torn pants?" 

"Yes, Dean. You appear very sexy."

Dean scowled and sat down on the bed beside Cas, who was sitting more or less exactly where Dean had left him half an hour ago, covers bunched up around his waist. He was hunched over Sam's laptop, his brow furrowed with angelic concentration.

"You didn't look," said Dean.

Cas stopped whatever the hell he was doing on the computer and regarded Dean's knee, poking a finger at the frayed material. "Yes. Very sexy." And then the angel-focus was back to the laptop.

Dean started feeling obnoxious. He curled over to lie beside Cas, and began tugging down the covers around the angel's waist. Seeing nothing but further expanses of angel skin, he asked, "Did you even bother to get dressed?"

"No. I didn't bother getting dressed." Dean flopped over on his back and chortled. "Should I have?" asked Cas, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

"No. Just don't let on to Sammy you're using his laptop without your pants."

"Why should that matter?"

"Don't blame me if he objects when you give it back to him with ball-prints on the case."

Cas stared at Dean, his expression unreadable. "Have you told Sam?" 

"Told him what? asked Dean, although he knew damn well what.

"About us?"

Dean squirmed. "Uh…."

"I'll take that as a no."

Dean tried to buy time. "It's just ... I'm not sure what _this_ is. So I dunno what I would say." He wriggled around to lie on his belly. "You want me to tell him?"

"I am certain you know what is best,” Cas stated crisply.

"That's not an answer. Hey, what are you doing anyway?"

"Research."

"Oh, you found a good angel porn site?" Dean scooted up so he could peek at the computer screen, a move he immediately regretted. "Cas, WHAT THE HELL?" Dean was sitting over on the edge of the bed, clutching his stomach, trying not to hurl from vertigo.

Castiel regarded him, and then glanced back at the laptop screen. There were tabs upon tabs upon tabs opened, seemingly not just in the screen's two dimensions, but somehow sticking out and going back into the screen, twisting around in a kind of infinite hall of mirrors. It looked like an eighty car pile-up on the information superhighway.

"What?" asked Cas, all innocence, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.

"How the hell did you even do that?" Dean pressed his stomach and tried to push down the wave of nausea.

"I have found the computer to be a very useful tool." And there was just enough of a hint of smugness there that Dean reached over and slammed the laptop shut, glaring at Cas. He grabbed the computer and carefully set it aside on an end table, and the took its place on Cas's lap. He put a hand on the angel's face.

"Are you attempting to initiate sexual relations, Dean? You just completed showering," Cas pointed out sensibly.

"You need a distraction. You've obviously been researching too hard. What the hell were you looking up, anyway?"

"Vhibishana," said Cas. 

A dark look crossed Dean's face. 

"You had well-founded issues of trust with him. I’ve done some inquiry into his background, as I am unfamiliar with his pantheon. Despite his status as a demon, he has followed a path of virtue."

Dean's expression darkened still further. "Bully for him."

“Dean. Bibi went against his own brothers – his family – when he felt it was the right course of action.”

Dean bristled, leaning back. “Oh, we're calling him Bibi. So he's your new demon buddy?”

"I don't think you could deny, I could benefit from some ... guidance, Dean." The last was said with an infinite sadness. But then Dean was kissing him. "Dean?"

"You need a tattoo."

Cas did the head-tilt thing, pushing Dean back a fraction. "I'm sorry?

"Like this." Dean put two fingers on his own T-shirt collar and pulled down displaying the edge of his anti-possession tattoo.

"Dean, as you know, I am not a likely target of possession."

"You know," said Dean, running his hands slowly over Cas's rib cage, "you scratched those sigils all over my ribs."

"Yes. To protect you. And your brother-"

"I need something, maybe here." Dean traced a finger over Cas's chest.

Cas squinted down. "Yes...?"

"Property of Dean Winchester. Fuck. Off. Bitches." Dean tapped out the imaginary letters.

The edge of Cas's mouth twitched up, just a fraction. "That's a long message. On my chest?" 

From the very slight rise in his voice at the end of the sentence, Dean realized that he had succeeded in rattling the angel. Which may have been his intent all along. "Or we could put it somewhere else." 

They were kissing again.

"Where?" It was barely a whisper.

"Maybe your inner thigh."

"That sounds painful."

"Would you like that?"

It happened in an instant: Cas was suddenly lying on top of him, gripping Dean's wrists up above his head, and Dean felt the weight of untold thousands of years staring down at him.

"I might," whispered Cas.

 

Afterwards, they were lying in a tangle. "Cas?"

"Yes?" There was really no need to check if the angel was awake. Angels never sleep. Dean did it out of habit. 

"What did Bibi-whatever mean by Crowley is king of _a_ hell. Isn't there only one? I mean, I got some experience there."

"It's ... complicated."

Dean rose up on one elbow. "Hey! OK, I know I'm not Sam. But isn't there Hell for Idiots version you could give me?”

The angel almost smiled. "You are anything but stupid, Dean. If anything, your fault is a kind of impatience. Which is common in the highly intelligent."

Dean was quiet. Had Cas just called him smart? He dismissed the possibility as another instance of misunderstanding Angel Speak. “Multiple Hells, Cas,” he prodded quietly.

Cas was quiet for a moment, as if his brain computer was buffering something. “You and your brother have encountered multiple gods, haven’t you, Dean?” Dean nodded. “Has it occurred to you before, the seeming contradiction? There is one God, and yet there are gods?” Dean nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him to get philosophical like that, but now that Cas mentioned it…. “They are all aspects of my Father. As is indeed everything in creation.”

“So the pagan gods … are part of God?” Dean started idly tracing out the _Property of Dean Winchester Stay Back Motherfuckers_ line on Cas’s chest. 

Cas peered down at his chest and frowned, as if he were privy to what Dean’s imagination was conjuring. “Yes. The pagan gods derive their essence from Him, but they also glean a certain amount of power from human belief. This is something fundamental about Creation that changed when my Father created you, beings with free will. These creatures were able to harness a certain amount of the collective will. That is one reason why the pagan gods you have probably dealt with have been in a somewhat … _diminished_ state.”

“Fewer believers,” said Dean. He had now progressed to And This Stomach is Dean’s Too.

“And you are also aware that heaven, too, is multiform?”

“You mean that everybody has their own little patch of heaven? Yeah. That one I know from experience.”

“Everyone … wills a certain aspect of heaven.”

“And hell is like that too? You mean I picked where I wanted to go in hell? Because that’s not what I remember.”

“You were an exception, to an extent, due to the bargain with the crossroads demon. But, yes, a certain portion of your experience could be attributed to your expectations.”

“Why didn’t I know this? I could have expected strippers and cold beer!”

“That’s not quite how it works, I think,” said Cas. “And your beliefs are fairly static, Dean.”

“I did it to myself?”

“No! Dean, don’t twist what I’ve said to accentuate your already ever-present self-loathing!”

Dean looked up at Cas’s face. The angel was glaring up at him with a kind of celestial fury. “OK.”

“And … what you’re currently doing is distracting.”

“Oh. You want me to stop?”

“Well….”

Dean grinned.

Cas sighed and looked as if he was attempting to focus. “Other people, who have differing expectations, who perhaps spent their formative years in other cultures, in other parts of the world, would have a different experience of hell. So, yes, there are multiples.”

Dean traced his fingers along the lips that he also considered his personal property. And then he stopped. “How many?”

“What?”

“How many hells?”

Cas closed his eyes. “It’s variable throughout history. My best estimate, given the current conditions, is seven.”

“Seven hells. And, do you think the other CEOs of hell all despise Crowley?”

“That is quite possible.” Cas managed between Dean pressing down on his own personal lips. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You really wish me … to get a tattoo?” 

Dean pulled back. There was something plaintive about the statement. “You wanna get a tattoo?”

“What? No! I mean….”

“This will be great. Look, I know of a great artist. You'll look sweet.”

Cas didn’t look at all certain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we check in on the Trans and have a drink with a god.

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 2 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 80,000  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system.

 

Sam, who was standing in the parking lot near the dockside, one arm resting on the Impala’s roof, leaned his long body over a fraction more so he could look his elder brother right in the eye. Dean, who was squirming around in the driver’s seat, his fingers rapping on the steering wheel, finally glanced back up at him. “So,” Sam enunciated, “Cas is out getting a tattoo.”

It was a statement, but from Sam’s expression when he said it, also a question. A pointed question. “It’s an anti-possession tattoo,” Dean clarified, hoping that would be the end to it.

It was not. “Castiel. Who is an _angel_. Is getting an anti-possession tattoo.”

Dean’s words came rapidly, one spilling over onto the other. “Look, Sammy, you know his mojo has been on the fritz since he got back from Purgatory. We gotta take everything into account. And on the off chance that he short-circuits at the wrong moment, there’s extra protection.” It seemed clear enough.

Sam leaned back and extended a hand, counting off fingers. “So there’s gonna be an angel and a demon _and_ Jimmy in there? Isn’t it gonna get kinda crowded?”

“Uh, Jimmy flew the coop. A couple of incarnations ago.”

Sam paused. “He did?”

“Yeah.” Dean had made damned sure of this before…. Well, he wasn’t going to go into it with Sammy right this minute. “Look, it won’t take long. I’ll just drop you off here at Garth’s….”

“Sure. And let _me_ deal with Garth. And the Trans.”

Oh, so _that_ was the issue. Dean grinned. “Look, how about this? You want me to drop you off at a nice college coffee bar instead? You could use the internet, do research, look for your porn-“

“Screw you!”

“… have some crappy gay coffee with the whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles and check out the college chicks for a while, and then we’ll go together. To meet Garth.”

“No, no, no,” Sam sighed. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” He rolled his eyes. 

“I owe you big,” said Dean. “I promise, this won’t take long. I just have to make sure the angel doesn’t smite the tattoo artist, and then we’ll be right back. OK?” But the car was already in gear, leaving Sam little time to stumble back out of the way before Dean was rumbling off.

Sam turned and cast a glance down the dockside to the ramshackle-looking boat. How did the stupid thing even keep afloat? He sighed. How did he always end up pulling the shit jobs? Did his brother intentionally want him to hate his own life?

Sam steeled himself, remembering that some day, some day _very_ soon, he would be back, hunched over a Styrofoam cup of Costco instant ramen, studying for the LSAT. Normal. Like the normal people. Who dwelled in normal houses with green lawns and picket fences built on real lots on land. Maybe he would join the damn PTA. Who cared if he even had a kid or not? Maybe there would be some cute single moms looking for a nice, normal guy who most certainly did not spend his days driving around with his half-mad sibling smiting demons.

He checked the moorage number one more time, and then strode up to the houseboat before he lost his nerve. He hopped up on deck and knocked on the door, as there was no doorbell on a boat. The door flung open immediately.

“SAMMY!” whooped Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth, who immediately had Sam enveloped in a suffocating hug. 

“Uh, yeah, Garth,” said Sam, who was regretting many of his life choices. His mood was not improved when Garth drew back and Sam realized the hunter was attired in a weathered baseball cap, and not much else, save the damp bath towel that was somehow clinging around his narrow hip bones.

“Liiiiiinda, honeybun, look who’s here!” called Garth, now fully and finally shutting the door behind Sam. 

“Who is it, babe?”

Sam, who had thought his level of awkwardness could not possibly be increased, was now confronted with the sight of Mrs. Tran, who was clad in a red and yellow-checked man’s shirt. And nothing else.

“Oh holy mother of fuck,” whispered Sam, smile pasted on his face, as Garth extended a bony arm around Mrs. Tran’s shoulders.

 

Cas looked up in surprise when he felt the kiss planted on the back of his neck.

He was lying on his belly on a table in the tattoo parlor, coat and jacket off, shirt rucked up under his armpits, and, to his utter humiliation, pants pushed down enough to reveal a three inch square patch of skin along his right hip bone. He had sensed Dean entering the establishment, but had not anticipated the affectionate gesture. Dean kept a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “How ya doin’?”

“He’s a trooper,” said the tattoo artist, a cute blond who was pretty much covered with ink and piercings. She put down her needle. “We’re just about done here, so you hold still, and I’ll go grab the bandage.”

Cas followed her with his eyes. “There is no need for a bandage, Dean. I can heal the area myself,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” said Dean.

Cas turned his head to face Dean. “I’m sorry?”

“Leave it. Let it heal by itself.” The conversation was cut off as the artist had returned with some salve and a dressing. Cas rested his head back on his arms. Dean’s motivations in this remained somewhat elusive. He had managed to negotiate a much simpler design as well as a less sensitive placement, but it was clear Dean’s idea about a marking him was not a whim, but something more deeply held. And Cas knew better to than to argue with Dean, who could be quite intensely stubborn, when it was only, after all, a small inconvenience. Humans were very, very complicated things, so if a slight alteration of his vessel was enough to please him, then so be it.

He hadn’t counted on having to let it heal, though. He prayed it wouldn’t be itchy. He really hated it when his vessel itched. He found as he got dressed that at least it was all on a level where his belt didn’t rub on it, for which he was thankful.

“Believe me,” the tattoo artist told Dean as he forked over a credit card, “I’m not hitting on your boyfriend or nothin', but he is a canvas! I’ve never seen skin like that. Honey, you should really consider coming back for more ink,” she told Cas as she swiped the card through the reader. “We could do a sleeve, four colors, it would look great. Maybe a lion?” Her eyes grew big.

“Uh. A sleeve?” Cas asked Dean. He was ineffectually trying to re-knot his tie.

“She means a picture going down your arm,” Dean told him, quickly taking over securing Cas's tie. “I think that’s enough for now. But we’ll keep you in mind,” he told the artist. “For now I just wanted…” he trailed off as he yanked down his T-shirt collar to reveal the top of his own tattoo.

“Oh, you’re matching! That is so epic!” gushed the artist, proffering Dean his card back. 

“But what would you think about angel wings?” asked Dean. “Maybe on the back?”

The artist was suddenly rubbing Cas’s back. Cas tried not to cringe. “On _his_ skin? Gorgeous!” she opined.

Dean nodded smugly and then, muttering, “C’mon,” to Cas, put a hand on the angel’s waist and steered him out of the shop. 

“Dean. I already have angel wings. I do not need a … picture.”

“Yeah, but I can’t see them!”

“They exist on another-“

“Spiritual plane. Yeah, you’ve told me. And I’ll get eye-melt. Hey, no obligation. We’ll think about it.”

Cas frowned at Dean. He wasn’t at all certain when his back had become joint property, at least in Dean’ s mind, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about this new development. It was a little disorienting. He had reasoned that the small anti-possession tattoo represented the culmination of these negotiations, not the first step. 

Humans confused him sometimes.

He sat down thoughtlessly in the Impala’s passenger seat, winced, and sat up straight.

“Hey, be careful,” said Dean. “That’s gonna be tender for a couple days.”

“I could heal it, Dean,” said Cas, staring at his friend. Dean however was thumbing his cell phone.

“Cas, be patient. You’re, what? A millionty-billion years old? It’ll only be a couple days.”

“Dean, I really need to ask-“

“Oh, shit!”

Cas stopped short. Dean was now sitting in the driver’s seat, roaring with laughter. “Oh shit. Oh god. Oh shit.”

“What is it Dean?”

“Text from Sammy. Garth and Mrs. Tran? I guess they’re together. Like, _together_ together.”

Cas let the information sink in. “Garth Fitzgerald and Linda Tran are a romantic couple? Did Sam find this to be surprising?”

“Surprising? More like nauseating, stupefying, hit-you-like-a-shit-ton-of-bricks.” Dean paused and eyed Cas. “Hey. Did you know about this?”

Cas, who had been dispatched by the Winchesters on more than one occasion to check in on Kevin, unbeknownst to Garth, had indeed taken note of the relationship. He found humans to be confusing. But not _that_ confusing. “Yes,” he answered simply.

“And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?”

“You and Sam wanted me to assess Kevin’s security, and that was never an issue, to the best of my knowledge.”

Dean frowned. “Well, I guess.”

“What the various parties are doing with their genitals is none of my concern.”

“Oh, gawd, Cas! Thanks for the mental picture.” Dean huffed and then started the car. Cas squirmed around, trying to find a comfortable position as they sped towards Garth’s safe houseboat. 

Sam was already waiting outside on the deck, sitting on a well-worn lawn chair and pulling back on a beer. He saw the Impala as soon as it pulled up in the parking lot, and strode up the dock to meet it. 

“How’s the ink, Cas?” asked Sam politely as the angel extricated himself somewhat painfully from the passenger seat.

“Tender.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you just, you know, mojo it up?”

Cas caught the unspoken question. _Is there something wrong?_ He flicked his eyes at Dean, and then quickly said. “I’m perfectly fine, Sam. I just … don’t wish to erase it. If I use my powers to heal it.”

“Oh, yeah!” said Sam, as if that actually made sense. “Would be kind of a waste, huh?”

“Uh, hey. How’s our little prophet?” asked Dean, eager to change the subject.

“How am I?” thundered Kevin, who had somehow sneaked up on them all.

“Oh, uh,” said Dean. “Hey, Kev. Should you be out her in the open like this?”

Kevin gripped the lapels of Dean’s jacket, one hand still swaddled in a bandage, and pulled the hunter down to his considerably shorter eye level. “I’ll tell you how I am. Trapped in this fucking tiny-ass leaky boat with the two of them?”

“I told him maybe we could get him out for a little while?” Sam suggested.

“Take me anywhere!” Kevin told Dean, not loosening his grip. “I don’t care. Take me back to Crowley. Just get me out of here.”

“Hey. Hey,” Dean soothed. “We can do that. There's a girl who's got another tablet. Sam and I were just talking about taking you to her.”

“Yes! The girl with the tablet! Take me to the girl with the tablet!”

Sam frowned. “We can do that, Kevin. But you know your mom-“

“Get me away from those two or I cannot guarantee what will happen! I will bludgeon them with the fucking tablet!”

“I do not think that is a proper usage for the word of the Lord,” Cas put in mildly. He found that Dean, who had finally wrested himself away from Kevin’s nine-fingered death grip, was suddenly grabbing his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Kevin. We got it covered.” Dean smiled at Castiel.

 

The brothers’s instructions to Cas had seemed simple enough: “just go all badass angel mofo on their asses.” Castiel, angel of the lord, had the experience of a few millennia of scaring the holy crap out of humans. However, as he had confessed to Dean, “I find Mrs. Tran to be a little intimidating.”

“So does everybody, dude,” said Dean, slapping Cas on the back, causing Cas to wince where his tattoo was still tender. 

Although Garth had been his typical effusive self, greeting Cas with an extra-tight embrace, and thus further irritating the sore spot just below his belt, Mrs. Tran was unimpressed. “This is supposed to be an angel? But it dresses like a Seventies TV cop. Am I supposed to be awed?”

But then Cas manifested the shadowy pair of wings, and suddenly Mrs. Tran’s small hand was gripping Garth’s, and there was a new spirit of cooperation was felt within the SS Wisdom Tooth.

Sparing one last steely-eyed glare, Cas suddenly turned and marched out the starboard door, Dean hot on his heels. He began to tremble as soon as he reached the deck, and only Dean getting a quick arm around his waist prevented him from slumping to the ground.

“Easy,” whispered Dean. “You done good.” He pulled an unresisting Cas around so the angel’s head rested on his shoulder. 

“That was awesome!” shouted Kevin, who, along with Sam, was out the door just after Cas and Dean. He paused, looking at Dean and Cas. “Uh. Hey. Am I interrupting-“

“Kevin just had this great idea!” said Sam, grabbing Kevin by the arm. “We’re gonna go get some burgers. You guys hungry?” 

“Huh? Yeah,” said Dean distractedly. He dug in his pocket and tossed Sam the car keys, not taking his eyes off Cas. “I think we could use a good meal.” He carefully helped Cas lower himself into the lawn chair Sam had been using.

“Great. Come on, Kev! We’ll get some nice greasy burgers.” And then Sam half-walked, half-dragged a very confused Kevin up to the parking lot an into the Impala.

 

“You should try their vegetarian burger, Kevin. It’s actually pretty good,” said Sam.

Sam set a little plastic triangle with the number 42 inscribed on it down on the table between them, and slid in to sit across from Kevin at one of the sticky candy-colored plastic booths inside the burger joint. The prophet, for his part, had been folding paper napkins into origami swans. He glanced up at the hand-painted mural of a hamburger running over a rainbow that decorated one wall. “I thought Dean liked diner food.” 

“Yeah, this is more a college crowd, in here,” Sam admitted. “To be honest, I usually avoid places like this. Too many memories.”

As if in answer, the front door swung open and a small pack of college-aged girls came fluttering in, all giggles and whispers. Both Sam and Kevin looked over to them, almost unconsciously. There was one in particular, cute and chubby and dark-haired, who glanced over at Kevin and smiled. 

Kevin gulped, dropping his head. “Yeah. Too many memories.”

“Sorry, dude,” said Sam quietly.

Kevin looked up, his eyes blazing. “Sam. What is the deal with your brother and that angel?”

Sam hesitated, confounded by the abrupt change in subject. “OK. Look, Kevin. I want to be straight with you. But you’re straying into profound bond territory here.”

“Profound _what_?” asked Kevin.

“Look,” said Sam, picking up the little glass salt and pepper shakers on the table. “See, this is my brother,” he said, holding up the salt. “And this is Cas,” he continued holding up the pepper.

“Yes, Sam, that makes it so much more clear,” snorted Kevin. “We are all condiments.”

“And this,” said Sam, grabbing a little packet of ketchup, “is you! Or anybody who gets in the middle.” He snuggled the ketchup between the salt and pepper shakers. “And this,” he said, rooting around in his pocket, “is the profound bond!” He triumphantly held up a little rubber band. Holding the shakers plus the ketchup packet together with one hand, he took the rubber band and, with some effort, stretched it around the entire assembly. And then he let go. The rubber band snapped. The salt and pepper shakers knocked together, squeezing the ketchup pack enough that it farted out a blast of ketchup, which caught Kevin right in the chest.

“Oh, gawd!” shouted Kevin, standing up. “Sam!” Sam pressed a worried finger to his lips, and, after a look around, Kevin sheepishly sat back down. “Goddammit, Sam,” he whispered. “So you interfere with your brother, you get ketchup stains?”

“I was advanced placement. Once,” Sam apologetically replied, handing Kevin a paper crane napkin. 

“Number forty-two,” said a bored teenager, who thumped a plastic tray holding a couple of greasy paper bags and some drinks down on Sam and Kevin’s table. Kevin grabbed one of the cups, pushed off the lid, dabbed the paper crane napkin in the cup, and then applied it to his condiment-marred shirt. But he only succeeded in further extending the mark.

“Great, now it’s stained of coke and ketchup.” He tossed away the soggy napkin. “My mom is gonna kill me.”

“Not if we have Cas go angel on her again,” reasoned Sam.

Kevin gave a half-smile, and then took a drink from the cup he had just used as an impromptu liquid detergent. “So you really don’t know what’s going on there?”

“I have my suspicions. But, Kevin, believe me. I know you think you know everything, and that may be so, but I know my brother. You’re an only child, right?” Kevin nodded. “Dean is just this way about some things. Hunting. The car. And the angel.” Sam shrugged. He opened one of the bags and rustled around. “Wanna sweet potato fry?” he offered. Kevin shook his head. Sam stuffed some fries in his mouth and re-closed the bag. “I have plenty of shit to worry about. But I’m gonna let Dean figure this one out on his own.”

 

The place they were walking: it was really nowhere at all.

Castiel the seraph walked side by side with the demon, Sri Vibhishana, into the place that was between worlds. They didn't speak, but their silence was companionable. Castiel looked around, enjoying the experience of the scenery that wasn't. He had missed this. It would have been nearly impossible to venture here with Dean, or really any other mortal. And Cas was no longer on what might be called friendly terms with any of his angelic brethren. 

There was a kind of freedom here. He was not in his true form, but close enough he could feel the breeze flutter the flight feathers on his primary wings. He arched his vessel’s back, enjoying the sensation. Bibi looked over and smiled mildly. Although he was demon-bred, Bibi’s true face was pleasant to look upon.

They finally arrived. It was a chalet, nestled in the mountains beside a running stream.

“This place … it's in the real world, isn't it?” asked Cas.

“Yeah, it is!” smiled Vibhishana. “I couldn't bring Ruth along to a place between worlds, you understand? It’s not really in the world, innit? And she's mortal and all. So I built a little place. For us. At any rate, go, have a seat.”

They hadn’t really gone through any door, but had instead arrived in the middle of a cosy living room with the view of a waterfall. You could hear the rushing water in the distance. It was soothing. Cas seated himself, wincing as he once again neglected to favor his still healing tattoo.

“Besotted with a mortal, aren’t we?” said Vibhishana, who was setting two glasses and a decanter on the low table between them. Cas looked up sharply at him. “Sorry if I’m talking out of turn on you?”

“No,” said Cas, watching as Bibi used a pair of silver tongs to plink ice into the glasses, and then poured a smoky amber liquid from the decanter over the ice. “I don’t fully understand what has happened to me. What is happening.”

“If it ain’t prying,” said Bibi, pushing a glass of Scotch rocks towards Castiel, “how long have you been gadding about with, you know, human sorts and all that?”

Cas beamed with pride. “I have watched over the human race for all of the millennia, since the first fish wriggled from the primordial ocean and crawled up on to the muddy bank.” Cas took a small sip of his drink. He had learned to relax into his vessel enough to enjoy a mild sensation of inebriation. Though he had no wish to get drunk off his ass with a demon.

Bibi sat back, the darkness that was his constant companion seeming to ease in around him like a well-worn old coat. “Yeah, you _watched_. But how long have you walked among them? Watching ain’t the same as parading around in a human skin.”

“Oh,” said Cas. He looked at his own hand, still marveling at the magnificence of his vessel, surely his father’s most splendid creation. “This is the first time. It’s been … four or five years?” He realized he wasn’t exactly certain how to count his time of penance in Purgatory. 

“Oh, a virgin then,” chuckled Bibi. “It's no wonder you’ve been knocked arse over teakettle.”

Cas looked up, wondering if he should take offense. When Dean used the word “virgin” there was an undercurrent, a strange mix of spite and pity and wonder. But the demon was smiling at him, wearing an expression that held no malice he could detect. “What do you mean?”

“Mortal souls. They shine so brightly, don’t they? The most intoxicating substance known, much more so than this poor stuff,” he added, holding up a glass of liquor. The ice tinkled in a pleasing manner against the side of the glass. “Excuse me, here I’m comparing my demon self to you, but we, my friend, are no match for it.”

Cas took another swallow of Scotch, cherishing the burn as it went down. “You and the Guardian, Ruth…” he began, not really knowing how to phrase the question.

“Ah, yeah!” Bibi leaned forward and refilled his glass from a cut crystal decanter. He motioned, and Cas placed his own glass near for more Scotch. “It has to do with that bloody tablet. It’s had an arse-load of names over the years. It was once known as the Tablet of Sahadeva. You can imagine the row in my family when it turned into the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar. And, to make matters worse, ended up in the sodding New World. In order to keep the peace – I am a sort of peace-keeper in my family – I ended up offering to watch over it. Which I have, over the many centuries, with more or less cooperation on the part of the current Guardian. Generally _less._

“I was pretty chuffed when I met the current Guardian. Never thought those old buggers would get so desperate as to pass the job over to a female. And a redhead to boot. I… Well, I like women,” Bibi confessed. Cas could have sworn the shadows that enfolded him turned the slightest bit pink. “Rather a lot. Perhaps rather too much for my own good.” He smiled. “You understand, of course, I was supposed to be watching the tablet, not the Guardian. But she has sparked my interest, if you know what I mean..”

“I pulled Dean from Hell.”

Cas wasn't certain why he had blurted it out. He had been drinking alcohol, but was nowhere near drunkenness. It was no secret, of course, but it felt confessional. “Um. Our Hell.”

“You are one cheeky son of a bitch,” said Bibi.

“I was following orders. That's what I did best: follow orders.”

“Isn’t that what your lot was made for?”

Cas bit his lip. “Looking back, I wasn't a very good angel.”

“No shame in that. Between you, me and the lamppost, you are only the second of your kind I’ve ever allowed in here.”

Cas wondered but did not ask who was the first. “I have done many things which I regret.”

“You smote Raphael, didn’t you? There are not a few in my family who would shake your hand for that. He was quite a great twat.”

Cas narrowed his eyes and watched Bibi, not certain what to say.

“Your brethren haven’t been making many friends these past few years, Castiel: gallivanting around, slaying my kind on a whim. We lot are old families. And we have long memories.” The darkness around him seemed to shimmer, and then settle itself. “But here I am, being rude. You asked to speak, and I've gone off on a rant.”

“I just wanted to ask you...” Cas began. “I have studied your history. You have made some … difficult decisions.”

Bibi smiled wryly. “That bit they told in the Ramayana? My decisions were not universally regarded as the correct ones. At the time.”

Cas stared into his glass. “I have been having difficulty.... Free will is a new concept for me. I don't want to do the wrong thing. Not again.” He looked up at Bibi. “I know you have gone against your own brothers, when you thought it was right. But how do you tell … what is right?”

“THAT is a brilliant question, Castiel the angel,” smiled Bibi. He looked up. “Oh, can you excuse me for one moment? I‘ll be right back.” 

Castiel had noticed there was a new being standing in Bibi's living room: a tall, well-dressed man. And … there was no other way to describe it, he was _beautiful_. He smiled down at Cas, his smile seeming so large that his face couldn't contain it. Bibi went over to him, and after a whispered conversation, the man disappeared once again.

“My cousin,” explained Bibi, sitting back down again. “Family business. And there is one bit of advice for you: surround yourself with good people. Always. You already have, haven't you?”

Cas nodded. “I think so. Yes.”

“Now, about pondering the whole 'What is right' business – you fancy trying out transcendental meditation, mate?”

 

“So how far to the girl with the tablet?”

Sam glanced back to the back seat, which was currently full of squirming prophet, and smiled. Somehow, neither Winchester had seen fit to share that the girl in question wore combat boots, and had a big, bad jealous demon boyfriend to boot.

“Are you really asking us, 'Are we there yet?'” asked Dean, his tone one of long-suffering annoyance. “What are you, twelve?”

“Guys, have you considered maybe, just maybe, I'm a little bit stir crazy? I’ve been trapped in a tiny boat, where I couldn't even wander out of my cabin without running into....” He waved his hand around in a gesture evidently meant to portray connubial bliss between his mother and Garth Fitzgerald. “And now I'm trapped in a freaking car.”

“It's a great fucking car. You should thank your lucky stars your ass is planted in this car. You want us to turn around and take you back home?”

“It's not my home,” muttered Kevin, who settled into a sullen silence.

“We're almost there, Kev,” said Sam, pointing up ahead. 

Kevin peered ahead at the old stone church. “It looks drafty,” he commented.

Dean growled. He literally growled.

Kevin paused at the back of the church as Dean went up to greet Ruth. Kevin nudged Sam, pointing to her footwear. “Why do girls do that? The ugly boots? Do they think it's attractive?”

Sam rolled his eyes and dragged Kevin forward. “I think it's more of a uniform, dude.”

“Uniform for what? Does she think The Clash is gonna play a concert here?”

“So,” Dean told Sam and Kevin. “I told Ruth here we gotta go do … stuff and things.”

“You want me to babysit the prophet?” grinned Ruth. “I get twenty-five cents an hour.” Dean cracked a grin, but Sam cringed. He pulled his brother aside.

“Dean, you really think that's wise?” The brothers looked back towards the altar, where Kevin was irritably refusing Ruth's offered beer.

“Dude, come on. We drove all night. Don't you wanna at least crash a couple hours? Besides, that girl's made of badassery. And she's got a big, creepy boyfriend.”

Sam put his hands on his hips. “I thought you didn't trust the big, creepy boyfriend?”

“Cas thinks he's OK. He's done _research_.”

Sam glowered. “And here I thought he took the laptop to play Minesweeper. OK, so we lose Kevin again to Crowley, you gonna be the one to go tell his mom?”

Dean scowled. “All right, you win. You wanna take the first shift?”

It was Sam's turn to scowl. He really could have used a nap. “Yeah, all right.”

Dean was already on his way out, leaving Sam shaking his head.

 

“So what are you getting so far? Are you sure you don't wanna beer? Or some reading glasses?”

“Will you maybe stop hanging over my shoulder?” asked Kevin, who was seated in front of the tablet. He frowned over towards Sam, who had stretched himself out on a pew, wrapped up in his jacket. Occasionally, a soft sound of snoring emitted. _Some protection_ , Kevin thought.

“OK!” said Ruth, who cheerily sat down on the altar, swinging her legs. “So, what's it say? What's it say?”

“Nothing,” snapped Kevin.

“What? That sure looks like writing,” said Ruth, holding out the beer bottle towards the tablet. Kevin slapped it away.

Kevin raised his hands, signaling, he hoped, for silence. “Sometimes … it takes a while. For me to be able to see.”

“Okey-dokey, arti-chokey,” said Ruth, sipping her beer. “Hey, you wanna see a trick?” she asked, pulling out a gold coin. 

“No,” said Kevin, who studiously tried to remain unimpressed while she palmed the coin and ended up “swallowing” it and then spitting it into a hand. Ruth wore combat boots and had strands of her hair dyed blue, and as far as Kevin was concerned, nothing she could possibly do would be worth paying attention to.

“So, Dean says you live with your _mom_ ,” Ruth grinned.

Kevin rounded on her. “WHAT? Yeah, well … at least I'm not a drunk.”

“I'm not a drunk, either,” laughed Ruth. “I just like beer. You should try one. You're totally tense.”

Kevin lost what little cool he still possessed. “Yes, I'm tense. I'm being hunted by demons!” he spat, his voice jumping at least an octave.

Ruth held her arms out. “Hey, kid, look at me. You think it's easy being a Guardian?” She slapped a leg. “I got the knee joints of a sixty year old, I tell ya. I buy Ibuprophen at Sam's Club. In the gallon drums.”

“They … took … my … finger,” countered Kevin, waving his bandaged hand at her.

Ruth took his hand in hers. “Eh. Just the little one, it looks like,” she said. Kevin snatched his hand back. “Hey, it's not like you play violin, right?”

“I play cello.”

Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Well, that sucks.”

Kevin sulked in silence for a moment. He peered at the tablet again. Still nothing. “So, how did you end up Guardian? Did you just wake up one day and get zapped or something?”

Ruth sipped her beer. “Is that what happened to you?”

Kevin heaved a sigh. It seemed like so long ago now. The awakening. The crazy drive. Leviathan. Channing. Poor Channing. “Something like that.”

“Huh. Well, no, that’s not how it happened for me. Actually, it wasn’t very dramatic. The monks took me from my parents when I was five years old.”

Kevn quit staring at the tablet to stare instead at Ruth. “What? You're kidding. And your parents just let you go?”

“They made a deal. Well, my mom did. I don't exactly have a shit ton of living male relatives.”

“So the monks just ... took you?”

“Yup. I was off for the apprenticeship. They ran me around, trained me with these.” She twirled a sword. “They also gave me shit because I'm ten pounds too heavy. I'm like, I'm big boned, you know?” she said, patting a hip.

Kevin shook his head. “And that's your fate? You're just gonna guard a tablet?”

“Oh, hell no. I'm just _Acting_ Guardian. We’re just waiting for my male relative to grow up and claim the position. Then I'm outta here.”

Kevin, despite himself, was interested. Mildly interested, but interested nevertheless. “And then what?”

“Med school!”

“What? No way! No fucking way.”

“Yes, way. My boyfriend negotiated me a scholarship.” She leaned over closer to Kevin to confide. “The Guardian monks didn’t wanna risk a class action lawsuit.”

“You can't get into medical school! No way! You don't have the prerequisites!”

Ruth extended her arm towards Kevin, tugging up a black sleeve. “Know what this is?” she asked, pointing to the number 42, tattooed on the inside of her wrist.

“The answer to life, the universe and everything?”

“My MCAT score.”

“What? No fucking way!”

“Come on! Ask me something. The Krebs Cycle! The limbic system! Lay it on me.”

Kevin just stared dubiously at her. “I don't know a question.”

Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Oh, come on. You were pre-med. You were totally pre-med. You live with your mom and play cello!”

“I'm not pre-med any more,” Kevin sighed. He turned sadly back to the tablet. This was what it was. No more MCAT prep. No more girlfriends. No more cello practice. Just him and a fucking rock. He rubbed the corner of one eye with his sleeve.

“I’ve got a ton books, you wanna borrow them?” asked Ruth.

“What?”

“You know, MCAT prep. And I have a study program on my laptop-“

“What? No. I don’t- Look, why would you even do that for me?”

Ruth hopped off the altar, and stared at Kevin for a while, until he finally looked up and met her eyes. “Why _wouldn’t_ I do that for you?” she asked. And then she walked off to pop her empty beer bottle in a plastic recycling bin.

 

“What the fuck, Cas?”

Cas’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Dean’s voice. He was sitting on the motel room bed, wearing nothing but a pair of torn pajama bottoms, legs knotted up into the lotus position. He hadn’t budged when Dean blustered into the room, and now the only movement was those eyes tracking him. 

“Hello Dean.”

“What are you doing? Hey, are those my pajamas?”

The edge of Cas’s mouth twitched upwards. He put a finger into the hole at the knee. “I have been told this is sexy.”

“No kidding, Cas, have you decided you’re Buddha now?”

“I had a drink with Vibhishana the other day….”

“Bibi? So now you’re out carousing with demons again? Yeah, because that always works out so well for you.”

“Dean?” said Cas.

“What?”

Cas was quiet for a moment. “Can you let me finish?”

Dean glowered, but remained silent.

“Dean, I find myself in need of … guidance. For more years than you can imagine, I followed my Father’s orders. Or what I believed were my Father’s wishes. Now I am no longer certain.”

“So you went to bargain with a demon.”

“Dean, there wasn’t any bargain. Bibi has managed to live a righteous life, and I was curious.”

“So you got yoga instructions in exchange for your soul.”

“Dean, I don’t have a soul. I’m an angel. And the gist of the advice he gave me was to look for the answers myself.”

“Cas, you do not need a wacky eastern religion. What, are you gonna start hopping around and chanting next?”

Cas tilted his head. “Why would I do that?”

“Trying to find your answers from the junior vice president of Hell Number Seven.”

Cas blinked, as if trying to parse out Dean’s sentence, and finally gave up. “Dean, listen to me. I can no longer rely on my Father. I definitely can’t ask my brothers. And I don’t wanna rely on you: you don’t need another headache.”

Dean started to say something, but seemed to think the better of it. Instead, he sat down next to Cas. “But, you know, you can come to me. Right?”

“Yes. Thank you, Dean.” Dean ducked his head. “Where are Sam and the prophet?”

“I left them with the tablet and the guardian chick. I thought I’d dump my stuff here and then go get everybody some takeout. Given they haven't all killed each other by the time I'm back. But then more fries for us!”

“Would you like me to accompany you to purchase fast food?” asked Cas, unfolding his legs.

“You’d need to put some clothes on. Hey, why didn’t you tell me you were flexible like that?” he asked, pulling Cas over for a kiss. 

“Should I have?” asked Cas when the clench broke. “I thought you wanted to get food,” he added, as Dean was still occupying his mouth on Cas’s body.

“They won’t starve,” Dean muttered into Cas’s clavicle. He pushed the angel down on the bed, and Cas emitted a small grunt when he landed on the tattoo.

“How’s the tatt healing?” whispered Dean.

“Slowly.”

“Mmmm. We’ll go back and get you wings.” Dean had an arm under one of Cas’s legs and appeared to be seeing how far he could pull it upwards.

“Dean,” said Cas, holding Dean’s face in his hands to look him in the eye. “Why would I want tattoos of wings? I already have wings.”

“Because….” Dean murmured.

“Yes…?”

“Because you’re my angel.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 3 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 80,000  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, no, I did not make up the cherpumple. It's a real thing.

 

“So what do we got so far?”

Sam popped his shoulder once again. He noticed Kevin and Ruth both grinning surreptitiously at him. He had needed the forty winks after the drive, but reminded himself to never again fall asleep on a wooden pew. Those things were fucking uncomfortable as hell.

Sam glanced up to where Dean was handing over his garden burger. He grabbed it and, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, cautiously peeked inside the greasy waxed paper. Who the hell made a greasy veggie burger? 

“Well, I know one thing,” sighed Kevin, who had unwrapped his burger and then sort of let it sit there on the altar. “It’s officially called The Tablet of Mine Enemies.”

“Catchy,” said Dean. “Hey, Guardian Girl, are you vegetarian, or do you eat normal food?” 

“Anything,” grinned Ruth. “Did you get fries?”

Dean handed her a carton of fries and drew another burger out of the paper sack. “The double bacon cheeseburger goes to Mr. Free Will over here,” he said, handing it off to Cas. “How about mushroom?”

“Awesome,” said Ruth. 

Cas took a tentative bite of his double bacon burger, chewing thoughtfully. His manner appeared nothing at all like his attack of the munchies back when they had confronted the horseman, Famine: the remnants of Jimmy’s terrible hunger. Sam imagined Cas delicately cutting into the burger with a tiny knife and fork, like the judge on one of those TV cooking shows. “This was a good choice, I think,” Cas said, wiping secret sauce off with a coat sleeve.

“I thought Cas didn’t eat?” said Sam.

“He’s practicing exercising his free will decision-making powers,” said Dean, tucking into this cheeseburger, shoving a good half it into his craw.

“Hey, could I try a bite?” Ruth asked Cas. “I love bacon.” Cas dutifully handed his burger over to her. “Here, try the mushroom,” she coached him, trading her own.

Cas took a careful bite of the mushroom burger. “This is quite good. I don’t think I like it as well as my choice, but it is flavorful.”

Ruth took a chaw of the bacon burger. “Oh my god!” she squealed.

“Good?” asked Dean, his eyes lighting up.

“This is better than sex!” she gushed.

Cas scowled. He grabbed the bacon burger back and took another bite. “Well,” he said, “it’s difficult to reconcile the two activities, but I would say I judge sex to be slightly better than this hamburger.”

Sam’s jaw was somewhere near the floor. He glanced back at Kevin, who was staring, and at Ruth, who was rather pointedly trying not to giggle, as if she had just been party to a great dirty joke.

Dean was glaring at Cas. “Here,” he said, extending a paw towards the erotically charged bacon burger. Cas once again dutifully handed over his lunch. Dean took a generous bite. “Holy fuck. Hey, Cas, buddy. You wanna trade?” he asked, holding up the remnants of his own cheeseburger.”

“No, Dean, I do not wish to trade.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I think I made good use of my free will,” said Cas, sticking out his hand.

“Dean, why didn’t you just get a bacon burger too?” Sam asked him as Dean reluctantly forked over the burger.

“I didn’t wanna get the same thing as him,” Dean muttered sullenly into his cheeseburger.

“Why not?”

“Because I just didn’t wanna. Kevin! So what’s the deal with the tablet?”

The prophet had been sulking over his untouched burger, the grease now congealing in the waxed paper. “Not much,” he sighed.

Dean crinkled up his now empty hamburger wrapper and went to stand beside Kevin. “You gonna eat that?” he asked of the discarded burger.

Kevin sighed and shook his head, and the beef patty was on its way to Dean’s mouth. 

“So, you got the title, right? Enemy Mine Tablet?”

“Tablet of Mine Enemies,” said Kevin.

“Why does everybody call it Nebuchadnezzar’s tablet then?” Dean asked Ruth, who shrugged.

“Nebuchadnezzar probably stole it,” opined Cas, who was still taking tiny, girlie bites of his bacon burger. He narrowed his eyes. “He always was a little light-fingered. You should hear about the siege of Jerusalem.”

“Cas, no one cares about angel gossip,” sighed Dean. “And are you gonna spend all day playing with that burger?”

“I like the experience of _tasting_ my food, Dean.”

Sam snickered, earning a dirty look from Dean. 

“So what’s on the tablet?” Dean persisted.

“That’s what makes no sense!” said Kevin, throwing up his hands. “It’s like … a recipe.”

“A what?” asked Dean.

“I knew it!” said Ruth. 

Kevin flipped through his notes. “It’s like how to bake a cake. There’s the long section on how to roll out the crust….”

“Dean!”

“What?” asked Dean. Cas was suddenly beside him, standing altogether too close.

“Something.… I sense that there is something happening here.”

“And what it is ain’t exactly clear? Yeah. Well, thanks for that, Stephen Stills.”

“What?” asked Cas.

“Oh, praise Jesus! I found you!” shouted Garth Fitzgerald, who had just pushed his way into the nave.

“Garth? What’s going on?” asked Sam.

“Where’s Linda?” asked Dean.

“Where’s my mom?” asked Kevin, who had shot to his feet.

Dean read Garth’s expression. “Oh. Shit,” he said.

 

Garth sat on a pew, head in hands, looking for all the world like he was praying.

Ruth sat next to him, patting him on the back. “She just wanted to sunbathe out on the deck,” sighed Garth. “I knew it was a risk, but you just don’t say no to that woman! They said- They said they'd bring her back to me in pieces!”

“There, there,” said Ruth, tipping back her beer.

Dean stood off to one side with his brother, talking in heated whispers. “I’m just saying-“

“Dean, no,” said Sam.

“We leave her with Crowley a week or two, he comes to us on his knees begging us to take her back!”

“Dean,” said Sam. “And what if he just blows her up? Like he did with several of the prophets?”

Dean smiled slightly and shrugged, earning a glower from his brother. 

Sam moved over to where Garth and Ruth were sitting, and Dean followed him.

“I just can’t say no to Linda,” Garth repeated.

“No one can,” Dean grumbled, earning another reproachful look from Sam. 

“Ruth, is there any way you could help us out here?” Sam asked her.

“Geez, I’m sorry guys. I’d like to help, but I’m kind of like Sigourney Weaver in Galaxy Quest, I have one job.…” She trailed off, pointing towards the tablet. Cas and Kevin were both hunched over it, having a heated discussion.

“You kids find anything interesting in that tablet?” asked Dean. “Like maybe how to dismember an annoying King of Hell?”

Kevin sighed and grabbed his notebook. “I think there’s something weird going on that I don’t get, like this is supposed to be a metaphor or something.” Garth looked up and took the notebook.

“But as I have explained, angels do not eat,” said Cas.

“Or at least they pick at their food for twelve hours,” said Dean, eyeing the good three quarters of a bacon burger still in Cas's hand.

Kevin put an exasperated hand through his hair. “Why have a recipe for a cake if it doesn’t mean anything?”

“Uh, Metatron was hungry that day?” proposed Sam.

“Some people cook for recreation,” suggested Ruth. “I mean, not me. But some people.”

“Yeah, that would take time away from your beer,” grumbled Kevin.

“Damn straight,” grinned Ruth.

Garth looked up from the notebook. “Don't none of y'all cook?” he asked, pointing to the recipe.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, my brother and I won the Betty Crocker bake off at the county fair last season,” snapped Dean.

“What? Really?”

“No, not really!”

Garth narrowed his eyes. “There's no need to be rude, Dean.”

“Garth, what is it?” asked Sam.

“Well, for one thing, if this is a cake recipe, why on earth would y'all make a crust? Cakes don't have crusts-”

“Pies do!” said Dean, who had suddenly turned from scornful to excited.

“Maybe they just didn't have a different word for cake and pie,” reasoned Sam. “I mean, why would a pie have frosting?” he asked, pointing to the section on making a cream cheese frosting.

“Oh, hell!” said Dean, suddenly getting it. “This is that thing they had on TV. Where you bake pies inside of cakes?”

“Sounds gross,” said Kevin.

“A cherpumple!” said Ruth. “It’s supposed to be a million billion calories.”

“But angels do not eat,” Cas repeated.

“We know, Cas,” said Dean.

“Wait, maybe it’s to share. You know, be hospitable,” said Sam. “Kevin, is there any commentary about the recipe? Does Metatron say the purpose?”

Kevin grabbed the notebook and leafed back a couple of pages. _“Herewith lies the words for the bounty of hospitality; and thine enemy shall sup upon it; and thou shalt break bread together; and neither shall one leave the table, nor the other; and none shall cross swords; until the cake shall be consumed entire.”_

“Is it just me, or does that sound like a spell to you?” asked Sam.

“What kind of spell? Iron Chef Babylon?” asked Dean.

“No!” said Sam. “Dean. I’m getting a really crazy idea.”

“Those are always the best kind, Sammy,” grinned his brother.

 

Garth, as it turned out, wasn’t kidding about being able to cook. And to everybody’s surprise, he actually seemed to have the makings of an executive chef. Despite the almost complete absence of culinary knowledge among his sous chefs, the little-used rectory kitchen in the building beside the church had been converted to a hub of activity. Even though a quick web search had recommended using frozen pies, Garth was a perfectionist, and besides, no one wanted to risk potentially messing up the pie magic.

“Cas back yet?” Dean asked Sam.

“How would I know, Mr. Profound Bond?” grinned his brother through a face full of flour.

“I am here, Dean,” said Cas who had appeared with the sound of wing beats uncomfortably close to Dean.

“Good. Garth says we’re almost done. We gotta move on this if we don’t wanna have to deal with getting back Mrs. Tran in a bucket. 

Kevin, who was on frosting duty, paused and glowered at Dean.

“Keep a goin’, boy, before that frosting hardens!” Garth, on the other side of the monstrous cake, urged him.

“So how did it go?” Dean asked Cas.

“I left them in a state of … negotiation.”

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. “How is that?”

“Business in that pantheon is conducted at a slow pace. They tend to be … bureaucratic.”

“That sounds annoying.”

“It reminds me of home,” said Cas, a small smile on his face.

“So we’re ‘go’ to send out word to Crowley?” Dean prompted impatiently.

“This pastry just has to cool a little,” Garth told him.

“Yes, I think so, Dean,” said Cas.

 

“Castiel. Forgive the lack of preliminaries, but WHERE'S MY FUCKING TABLET?” Crowley glowered across the rectory's dining room table at Cas.

“I thought you would accept this peace offering first,” said Cas, indicating the behemoth pastry set in the middle of the table. Crowley noticed the table was set up for formal dining.

“So I'm talking to Madman Castiel now? Yes, that makes my bloody day, Sparkles,” grumbled the demon impatiently.

“It was made from scratch from the freshest ingredients,” Cas babbled, happily taking some of the cream cheese frosting on a finger and licking it off. “Including organic flour and pesticide free-”

“All right,” said Crowley, holding up his hands. “Stow the feverish babble. If I have a bite of your horrid pastry abomination, will you hand over my tablet?”

Cas held out a hand. There were suddenly two ginormous slices beached on the two elegant china plates set out on opposite sides of the table.

Crowley, not taking his eyes from Cas, slithered down into a chair. Cas seated himself as well. Crowley picked up a silver fork, plucked up a tiny piece of the cake, and then made a rather rude show of sniffing the little crumb. “Well, no poison, I'll give you that. Not that you'd be that stupid. Oh, hell yes, you'd be that stupid. Look who I'm talking to.”

“Yes, it was sheer coincidence about that dog blood,” said Cas, forking himself a bite of cake.

Crowley sneered at Cas, and then chomped down on the forkful of cake. He made a great show of chewing and then swallowing. “All right there you go. NOW WHERE'S MY-” Crowley stopped. He had attempted to rise from his chair, but failed. He wriggled and writhed, but was completely unable to get up. “What the blazes did you do to me now, you lunatic?”

“You need to finish,” said Cas calmly. “Odd. You style yourself as the smartest man in the world, yet you seem to have forgotten almost every human fairy tale ever written.”

“I'll summon my armies here. I'll gut your boyfriend!”

“No, actually, you won't. You can't make any hostile moves until you're finished,” said Cas.

“What?”

“Coffee?” asked Cas, holding up a silver carafe.

“There's twenty pounds of this dreadful pie-cake monstrosity on my plate!” bellowed Crowley.

“Have you tried meditation?” inquired Cas, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I have found that it helps calm the nerves.”

Crowley gripped the arms of his chair and glared at Cas. “I am going to finish this hell cake. And then I am going to personally gut you and every single Winchester and every single prophet I can find.”

“OK,” said Cas. He peered at Crowley with concern. “You know, if you eat quickly like that, you might give yourself a stomach ache?”

Crowley was tucking into the cake … well, with a demonic fury. He held the plate up to his face, and used the fork as a sort of rake to push it into his mouth. “Gonna … eat … an' then … kill!” he vowed. Cas watched impassively, carefully making certain he had exactly the correct proportions of sugar and cream in his coffee while Crowley waded through cherry pie layer, then pumpkin, and then finally, and with a terrific effort, the apple. He finally crammed the last morsel of crust into his mouth, and paused. He poured himself a cup of coffee, ending up splashing half of it on the table, and then up-ended the cup into his mouth to aid swallowing the wad of cake-pie.

“All right, I am done,” he said, bolting up.

And then he sat right down once again. “What the actual fuck?” he thundered.

Cas looked at him, twirling a morsel of pumpkin-in-yellow-cake on his fork. “I think I may need to finish too.”

Crowley goggled at Cas, his face now beet red. “Well then FUCKING FINISH.”

“I find I like to savor my food,” Cas told him.

Crowley leaned forward in his chair, his eyes flashing dark. “When I get out of this one, angel-”

“You will kill me, and everyone I care about, and then maybe you'll resurrect us so you can kill us all again?”

Crowley blinked.

“I thought I would help. You seem to be having difficulty creating more garish threats,” Cas told him simply. “I like the apple,” he said, nibbling at a speck of pie on his fork.

Crowley let his head drop into his arms. “You're just playing the drooling loony this time,” he muttered, putting his head up. “You fooled me. You do it so terribly well.”

“I'm curious. Why do you continue to underestimate me?” Cas asked. “And more importantly, underestimate the Winchesters?”

Crowley frowned and sniffed the air, his expression quite abruptly turning to one of shock. “Are you actually _with_ that repulsive Winchester boy now?” he whispered.

Cas tilted his head. “I wonder if you realize how your tone makes you sound … jealous.”

“I take it back. You are a raving bedlamite.”

“Thank you.”

Crowley’s operatic mannerisms had faded and fallen away. He looked at Cas, now sounding grave. “You can't be serious. Castiel. He's a mortal. Your sick idea of a romance is spending the next fifty years watching him shrivel up and die? And then what? Throw yourself on my mercy? Because I won't make it quick.”

“I'm sure you won't.” 

“Won't make you human, you know. Nothing will make you what you want to be. You're a creature. A monster. Like me.”

Cas set down his fork, pushing his plate back just a fraction. He met Crowley’s eyes. “You're right. I am a monster. I just hope to my Father I am not like you.”

Crowley’s glance was shrewd. “Your Father flew the coop a few centuries ago, or didn’t they distribute the memo to dodgy angels third class harboring delusions of grandeur?”

Cas looked far away. “My Father speaks to me. But I was not always so adept at listening for Him.” He shook his head sadly.

“Well then listen to the sound of my voice, Sparkles. I’m going to win this time. I’m going to have it all, all the tablets and the prophet to boot. I’ll have various Winchesters roasting on an open fire, and you over my knee. Where you belong.”

Cas’s eyes grew big. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? You knew it was a trap….”

“Of course I knew.”

“But you walked in anyway. Crowley. It doesn’t have to be this way….”

“Yeah, it does,” Crowley snapped, his eyes darkening, the straightforward manner suddenly shed like an extra skin. “I’m not one of your penitents looking for redemption. I’m a bloody sociopath. I don’t have it in me.” 

“Crowley-“

“When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day. Now EAT YOUR FUCKING CAKE!”

“It’s a cherpumple.”

“Fuck you.”

 

The door banged open and Dean came striding into the room. 

He stopped short.

“I smell a Winchester!” Crowley howled.

“What the hell happened to him?” Dean asked Cas. “Pun intended.”

The reason Crowley had to rely on his sense of smell was that he was actually sitting around backwards in his chair. He seemed unable to turn around although he was struggling.

“Crowley has been trying out various spells in order to escape, Dean,” Cas explained. He was chewing delicately at a morsel of pie. “I don't think that particular one worked out right.”

“No, me neither, Cas,” said Dean. He leaned over and, with a thumb, rubbed a bit of cherry filling that had gotten into the corner of Cas's mouth. 

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Cherry,” said Dean, licking off his thumb. 

“Will you two kindly QUIT FLIRTING so I can go on my massive killing spree?” pleaded Crowley.

“He also consumed his pie too rapidly,” Cas confessed to Dean. “I believe it has given him dyspepsia.”

“Just fucking finish, Castiel,” sighed Crowley.

Cas looked at Dean, who nodded. Cas picked up his plate and unceremoniously crammed the entire remainder of the cake into his mouth. He swallowed, and then delicately dabbed his chin with a cloth napkin.

Crowley suddenly whipped around in his chair. His face was cherry pie red, and he was pouring off sweat. He breathed hard. “Finally!” he cried, leaping to his feet.

“Want the recipe?” smiled Dean, pulling out a tablet and pushing it across the table to Crowley.

“What is this, another bloody tablet?” asked Crowley, snatching at the stone. He hefted it with both hands, squinting at it.

The door banged open again.

“I am Ruth, Acting Guardian of the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar, three hundred twenty-second of the blood,” said Ruth, who was pointing her swords in Crowley’s general direction.

“Oh spare me the rousing speeches!” groused Crowley, thunking down the tablet. “I know who you are, Merida. And why the hobnail boots?” he raved, pointing at her feet. “Is there a grave shortage of women’s footwear, or do you fancy prancing around like a goth construction worker?” Ruth grinned. Crowley turned back to Cas. “Is the aim now to annoy me to death, angel?” he barked at Cas, who stifled a burp.

“Excuse me,” said Cas. 

“Kevin’s mom, Crowley,” said Dean. Cas rose and stood beside Dean.

Crowley stared at them. “You’ve cost me an afternoon. I’m going to take it out in Tran fingers and Tran toes. And maybe Tran ears. And eyes.”

Dean nodded to Ruth, who pointed a sword at Crowley’s neck.

Ruth glared down the sword. “Crowley. Yield … or die.”

Dean felt Cas suddenly, quietly, grip his fingers around Dean's forearm. His lips were very close to Dean’s ear. “Remain calm,” he whispered. Dean frowned.

“Fuck off,” Crowley told Ruth.

Ruth shook her head. “They never listen.”

“’Tis a pity,” said Bibi, who had just appeared beside her.

The room had darkened considerably. Vibhishana had not appeared alone: instead, there were … things. Dean couldn't really say he saw them, more like he sensed they were there. They weren’t really in the room, but seemed to be ever darting just out of the corner of his eye. They wriggled and writhed. They moaned. And rustled. And crackled. And slithered. They were not things that should be seen in daylight, nor on earth. Abominations. Desecrated, cursed things. 

Dean shuddered, and felt Cas’s hand tighten on his arm. Dean had seen a lot of horrible things in his life: many things no mortal man ought to have seen. But he struggled to fight down the sick feeling in his stomach, and the rising sense of panic. He did not want to be in this room. He wanted to flee.

“I am here by your side,” Cas was whispering. “I will not leave, Dean.”

“Yeah, good thing,” muttered Dean.

“Vibhishana,” said Crowley.

“Greetings, Self-Styled King of Hell,” countered Bibi, giving a slight bow.

“You have no place here. This is not your fight,” Crowley told him.

Bibi looked thoughtful. “Mmm. My uncle might tend to disagree there, mate.”

Crowley looked furious. “Tell Yamaraja he can bite me,” he spat.

“I think he might take great pleasure in that.” Bibi’s teeth were white.

Crowley looked around. There was something else reflected in his eyes now, something besides rage and annoyance. The King of Hell looked frightened. “Take your pets and get out of here,” Crowley blustered.

“Give back Mrs. Tran,” said Dean, trying desperately to keep the tremor from his voice.

“Oh, thanks for that, Mr. One Note,” said Crowley.

“Do. Or don’t. Ain’t no matter to me,” said Bibi. “My pets are getting peckish.”

The writhing and rustling increased. The creatures pressed into the room, sniffing and fork-tongued-licking at it, hungry. 

Cas was going to break his arm, Dean thought, but he stayed absolutely still. He was trying to distract himself by calling to mind another time when Crowley had seemed frightened. He honestly couldn't remember.

There was a soft sigh in the corner of the room as Mrs. Tran appeared. She looked around, disoriented. Then Ruth had her at the elbow. 

“This isn't over,” Crowley growled at Bibi, the sound emitting from deep in his throat. Then he turned to glower at Dean and Cas and, with a fain whiff of sulfur, he was gone.

“Oh, I hope not, mate,” said Bibi, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope not.” And then he too faded, along with the other presences. Light and air returned to the room.

Dean heaved a sigh, looking down at his hand. He was trembling.

“Come on, Kevin and Garth are waiting. And we got pie!” said Ruth as she dragged Mrs. Tran from the room, grabbing the tablet on the way.

“Mrs. Tran. Speechless,” said Dean, who realized Cas was still gripping him. “That's only the second time I've seen that.” 

“Are you all right?” Cas asked, his voice a little rough.

“I been better. Is that why you wouldn't tell me what you and your buddy Bibi were planning to pull?”

“We weren't certain we could do it. Bibi's family has been at odds with Crowley in the past. It was not clear they would openly oppose him, however.”

“You trust the guy?” asked Dean. He leaned back on the table, crossing his arms.

“You … wish my opinion, Dean?” There was a spark of hope in Cas's eyes.

Dean shrugged, but didn't drop his gaze. “That's why I asked.”

Cas wrinkled his brow and stood silent for a long moment. “Yes. I think we can trust Bibi. As for the other Lords of Hell....”

“You think we need them?”

“They would prove … useful.” Cas nodded, but it seemed, more to himself than to Dean. 

Dean leaned over towards the cake and took some of the frosting on a finger. 

“You should have a piece! It's pretty tasty,” said Cas.

Dean stood up wearily and heaved a sigh. “No, I think we should go make sure the Trans are situated first.” He made to go towards the door, but Cas reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“I have been thinking about something. The reason I was meditating the other day. I had wondered why you wanted me to get the anti-possession tattoo. And why you do not feel comfortable telling Sam about us.”

“Cas, it's just like I told you!”

Cas shook his head. “No, I don't think that's the reason. At least, I don't think that's the full reason.”

“Well what's the reason, then?” Dean snapped, his voice sounding too harsh.

“You suspect I will leave you.”

Dean started to speak, but halted. His eyes darted to the floor. He stood silently for a moment, biting his lip. “Cas. Everything leaves me. My mom. My dad. Bobby. Sam can barely stand to be with me. He's gonna leave after we finish with the tablets.” He looked up. “And you. Even you … let me go.”

Cas now had Dean by the shoulders. “Dean. I am here now. I will not go. You do not need markings on my back, but if that is what you wish, we will do it.” He traced a line across his chest. “Property of Dean Winchester. Uh, fuck off.” He winced at the curse, and Dean had to smile. 

But Dean had had enough of chick flick moments for the afternoon. “C'mon,” he urged. They walked back over through the yard, to the church, using a side door. Garth was sitting in a pew, one arm, as well as his jacket, around Linda Tran's shoulders. “No, y'all gotta listen to me from now on,” he was muttering to her.

Kevin and Ruth were hunched over the altar, and Ruth was typing on a laptop. “No, you can't say that!” Kevin scolded.

“Hey,” said Ruth, looking up at Cas and Dean. “I need to borrow the Trans for the afternoon, if that's OK? Kevin was gonna help me write my personal essays!”

“You can't say your hobbies include beer and stabbing people in your med school application!” said Kevin.

“Should I call them avocations?” she asked him.

“Your brother is out in the car, Dean. Said he had to make a phone call?” Garth told him. Dean cracked a smile, imagining his brother needed some space from the Trans or Garth or being offered a beer every five minutes. He signaled to Cas, and they both left the church through the front door.

Sam was leaning against the Impala, no cell phone in sight.

“Ready to hit it?” he asked.

Quite suddenly, Dean gripped Cas's arm. “No Sam,” he said, glancing nervously at Cas, and then back to his brother. 

Sam leaned against the car again, and tilted his head in a very Cas-like manner.

Dean glanced at the angel once again, and then plowed ahead. “Cas and me, we got something to tell you....”

Sam grinned.

 

Cas looked up from the book he was reading as Dean began to snore against his chest. He put a fond hand through his human’s hair and, as Dean wriggled and began to drool on Cas’s midsection, he turned back to his book. 

He glanced back at the page, and then blinked in confusion at the sudden flash of strong white light. He covered his face, and turned to shield Dean. But Dean was no longer there.

Cas brought his arm down and peered around.

The white room.

He was standing in the white room again. 

His vessel’s heart started to hammer in his chest. It all came rushing back, all of the pain and confusion.

Naomi, sitting behind her desk, hands clasped, perfectly buttoned up, stared him up and down. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re out of uniform,” she quipped.

Cas looked down. He was still wearing only a borrowed pair of Dean’s sweatpants. He was silently grateful he had thought to pull on anything at all. He gulped and looked back to Naomi.

“Report,” she stated.

Though every fiber of his being screamed no, Cas felt the words pouring out of him. “Crowley attempted to secure the cooperation of the prophet once again by kidnapping his mother. The Winchesters coordinated with the tablet’s guardian and her ally to prevent this.” 

“You should have eliminated the mother by now. She’s nothing but a drag on the mission.”

“I don’t want to be here,” said Cas. He wriggled uncomfortably. The raw tattoo on his back had begun to itch again.

“You’ll do as you’re told, Castiel,” snapped Naomi. “It’s your fault we have been brought so low as to use … spies.”

Cas blinked. Although he could never remember what happened in the white room after he had been returned to earth, once he was called, every encounter shone with crystal clarity. And he definitely could not recall Naomi threatening to lose her perfect composure like this before. “You aren’t happy about this either,” he stated.

“That has no relevance to your mission.”

“What is my mission?” Cas felt something: it was something straining at his grace. He hadn’t noticed it before. 

“Castiel. We rescued you from Purgatory at a great cost-”

“I didn’t ask to be rescued-“

“So I will tell you what to do, and you will do it.” Naomi was quickly recovering her preternatural calm. If he could keep her talking just a while longer.

“If we could-“

“You will return to where you where you were, and you will remember nothing. Nothing. Now!”

 

“Cas?”

Cas shuddered. How had his book gotten on the floor?

“Cas!”

“Dean,” said Cas, leaning over to grab the book.

“Man,” said Dean, rubbing his eyes and pulling Cas close. “You look like you had a nightmare. But you don’t dream. Did you have one of those … things?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cas! You know you can talk to me. About anything.”

“I would talk to you if there was anything to talk about,” Cas grumbled. He paused, trying to force himself to calm down. Yes, there was obviously something amiss. Dean said that he would sometimes blank out for a brief moment, and then have no memory of the incident. “Yes, I think I had a … _thing_ ,” he admitted. 

“Wonder if it’s, you know, from all the Purgatory stuff.”

Purgatory? “Yes. Something to do with Purgatory,” said Cas. He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s late. You need to get back to sleep.” He gently pushed Dean’s head back into his chest.

“Mmmm, angel pillow,” muttered Dean. And then his breathing got slower and slower. 

But Cas didn’t go back to his book. He put the book down on the end table and grabbed his cellular phone. He went to the web application, and typed in, “sociopath.”

 

Naomi sat at her desk, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

“A little … fraught, my dear,” came a voice from behind the two-way mirror.

“I am doing my best for you, sir. Always.”

“We don’t want that dirty little hippie running loose in heaven again, ranting about free will and all that other nonsense.”

“No, sir. Have you-“

“What? Spit it out, woman.”

“Has there been any news … of Samandriel?”

“Another traitor!”

“Sir?”

“If there were news, I would tell you. Now, silence, my dear. Let us get to work….”


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 4 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up to 8.08. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 80,000  
 **Summary:** Team Free Will uncovers yet another of those annoying tablets. This particular Word of God, however, has its own set of guardians, with their own agenda.  
 **Notes:** I’m not usually stupid enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Oh, and chicken and waffles are awesome together - just sayin'.

 

_Some years ago...._

The room was absolutely cavernous. On its own it would have swallowed many a castle or palace of earth.

But it was not of earth.

And it housed the tree at the center of the Nine Worlds.

A dark and beautiful woman awaited on the mezzanine, the graceful balcony winding around among the greenery, dappled with light from the many stained glass windows above. 

“They told me I’d find you here.” He was tall and good looking, with clear blue eyes and close cropped reddish hair and beard. 

“This place is my favorite,” she said, gazing around.

“Mine too. Or it’s come to be.”

“How … are you,” she asked, peering up into his eyes for the answer.

“Surprisingly well, all things considered. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. It’s been hectic up here, one thing and another. So, to what do I owe this?”

She nodded, casting her eyes down to the ground. She looked up again, through dark lashes. “I am here to plead for a favor. I realize you are probably busy, but I feel this matter has the greatest urgency.”

He smiled. “Your son?”

“Lost, at the Elysian Fields incident.”

“As was I,” he added. “You know how it works, now? You need to find a candidate.”

“We already have one. A care worker. _Médecins Sans Frontières._ Oxford-educated. Speaks eight languages.” She had a note of pride in her voice, as if he were already hers.

He grinned. “And he’s up for this madness?”

“We believe so.”

He nodded. His hands gripped the balustrade, staring up into Yggdrasil’s magnificent branches. Something slithered among its roots and disappeared. 

He turned to face her. “Then there is one more thing. I must trust you with a great secret. This may put you, and your pantheon, in grave danger.”

She nodded, and, offering an arm, he escorted her out.

 

Cas emerged from the shower, dark hair sticking every which way, a quite non-angelic look on his face.

“Lemme see,” said Dean, impatiently turning him around. Cas clutched at the towel wrapped around his waist, trying to keep it in place.

“I don’t like showers,” the angel complained. “They are … inefficient. And wet!” He blew at his bangs, and water dripped down his forehead. He glared at the droplets, as if he wanted to smite them from existence.

“Aw, just hold on Mr. Grumpy Feathers,” laughed Dean. 

“I don’t like care for nickname either, Dean!” 

“Don't be pissy, Cas. I gotta get the ointment. Just stand here and don’t touch it. Don’t scratch it. Don’t … just _don’t!”_

Cas spotted the mottled full length mirror mounted on the dingy motel room wall and turned his back to it. Then he attempted to squint over his shoulder to glimpse his reflection.

There was a rap at the door, and then Sam was barging into the room, cradling a laptop. “Get this! You guys gotta hear this about ancient Babylonian- Whoa, am I interrupting something?” he added as he finally noticed the half-naked angel and his brother holding a tube of something or other.

Dean guffawed. “Naw, we’re just oiling the angel. But dude, you gotta learn to give us a second to yell after the knock.”

“You’re doing … what to what?” asked Sam, his voice rising near to cracking.

“Turn around,” Dean instructed Cas, who was still standing with his back to the mirror. “You gotta see this, Sammy. It turned out really cool.”

Cas, though he seemed reluctant, obediently turned so his back was now facing Sam.

“Holy shit!” said Sam. He set down his computer and rushed over. 

Spread across Cas’s back was a fresh tattoo of a pair of wings. They were highly stylized, however, resembling not so much feathered wings as wing-shaped carved wooden lattices. The tromp l’oeil effect was quite astounding. It truly looked like there were a number of dark carved gaps in Cas’s back. Sam put out a hand. “Uh. OK to touch?” he asked Dean.

Cas wrinkled his brow. “Does it look … all right, Sam?”

“Dude,” said Sam, running two fingers lightly over a shoulder blade. “This is epic. This is like the best ink I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” asked Cas, who seemed relieved.

“Shit, yeah, really.”

“That chick is a genius,” grinned Dean.

Sam was still craning his neck at the design. “I wanna get one like this. Maybe a sleeve.”

“Oh, yeah, they’d love that at college, Law Boy,” said Dean, who now had his hands affectionately on Cas’s shoulders. “Come on, sit down so I can rub this crap on you,” he said, leading Cas over to one of the beds. “Don’t want you to peel.”

“That sounds unpleasant, Dean,” grumbled Cas. “Vessels are … messy.”

“You weren’t complaining last night,” laughed Dean. Cas gave him a dark look but sat on the bed and Dean crawled around to sit in back of him. 

“Hey, Cas, maybe we can go out and get a beer or something later,” Sam tried. He sat down on one of the ratty chairs and flipped open his laptop.

“And bacon burgers?” Cas asked, a spark of hope now showing in his eyes.

“Yeah, you can get you damn burger, long as I get a bite,” said Dean.

Cas glowered. “Why don’t you order your own bacon cheeseburger, Dean?”

“I dunno. Yours always tastes better for some reason.”

“Ouch!” Cas cringed away from Dean’s touch as if he had just been mortally wounded.

Dean paused from in his work, smiling slightly. “Sorry. But aren’t you like an angelic warrior or something?”

“I am a soldier!” Cas sat up straight, looking slightly offended. “My vessel is … sensitive.”

Sam puttered with his laptop, grinning with the fact that those two idiots sounded like a bickering married couple. He couldn’t very well tell Dean that though, without grave risk of losing life and limb.

Somehow, despite the new custom of booking separate rooms, Sam had begun gravitating towards Dean and Cas's place. It was easier to be around them now that Dean had confessed what they were up to and stopped making increasingly ridiculous excuses for wanting some private time. More evenings than not, after they had all checked in, Sam would grab his laptop and come over, and then he would just end up staying. And staying. And staying. And they would never ever kick him out. One time he had actually fallen asleep, slumped in his chair, only to awaken having been carefully placed on a couch, extra blankets tucked over him. 

Sam decided it was partly because he didn't remember his parents together, and he just wasn't around for the time Dean was with Lisa. So there was a kind of fascination in watching the two of them. They weren't touchy-feely: Dean just wasn't that type. But the whole concept of personal space, which was always dicey with Cas, had now and henceforth been completely abolished. 

The other day, Dean had been sitting on the bed, on foot on the floor, the other leg stretched out, hunched over something in John's notebook. Cas, who Dean had entreated to doff his coat and jacket, had sat himself down pretty much between Dean's legs, his back pressed against Dean's thigh. And then Dean had pushed the notebook over so it was spread, half over Dean's leg, half over Cas's, and both heads bowed together, almost but not quite touching, Cas's delicate hands – fingers that could burn out a demon – reverently turning the pages, one by one.

And Sam wanted to go over and hug them both. Even though it would have made him a total girl. And ruined the moment. So he'd kept his mouth shut and pretended to be poking around in his laptop, just sitting there marveling at the sheer mind-blowing fact of his brother being happy.

Cas was another matter. The angel's moods were sometimes dark. Given what he'd been through – what they'd all been through – these past few years, it was no surprise. He had these worrying … _episodes_ sometimes. Dean had been the first to notice, but Sam had picked up on them as well. He had likened them to petit mal seizures. Cas didn’t end up writhing on the floor, he would just seem to forget himself for a moment, and then for a little while afterwards he would act flustered and confused. Dean speculated it had some connection with Cas’s sometimes misfiring mojo, but what the link was they didn’t know, and Cas seemed awfully reluctant to connect with the other angels, who might be a help with it.

While Sam was spacing out, Dean had been finishing up with the tattoo goo. “OK,” he said, giving Cas a poke in the ribs. “Now go get some clothes on your ass and we'll go for burgers.” Cas got off the bed, but Dean managed to snag the towel and pull it off of him as he stood. Cas, with lightning quick angel reflexes, snatched it back and then, to Sam's astonishment, snapped it with expert precision at the chortling Dean, sending him sprawling back. “Hey, that smarts!” Dean cried, holding his stomach. Cas gathered what little remained of his dignity and marched, butt naked, ramrod-straight back, into the bathroom.

Sam slammed his laptop, put his head down on it, and wept with laughter.

 

Some time later, the three men gathered in a local diner, Sam still noodling with his laptop, Dean stirring his cuppa joe, and Cas studying the menu as if it were a sacred text. 

“Still taking this free will business seriously, Cas?” asked Sam, who, enjoying the cafe's excellent wifi, did not look up.

Cas, whose back was still tender, was pitched forward slightly. Dean, next to him, sat back with his coffee mug and extended an arm across the back of the booth, not quite over Cas's shoulders but close enough.

“Whatever it is, I get a bite,” said Dean, blowing on his coffee.

“I fail to remember when I agreed to that clause,” muttered Cas.

“You never finish anyway,” said Dean. “Think of the starving children in Albania.”

“How will my unfinished Belgian waffles help or hinder malnourished Eastern Europeans?” asked Cas.

“You're getting the waffles?” asked Dean. “Make sure to get whipped cream.” After they had given their orders to the waitress, he looked over at Sam, who was still hip-deep in Babylonia. “So, you gonna tell us about this Nerdly guy?”

“Nergal,” said Sam.

“And, he's a D-List god of some kind.”

“Nergal and his consort, Ereshkigal, are rulers of Irkalla,” Cas supplied.

Dean looked from Cas to Sam. “OK, so what do we got besides a butt-load of crossword puzzle answers?” 

“Well, as it happens, Irkalla was the Babylonian equivalent of Hell,” said Sam. “That's why your buddy Bibi gave us the name.”

“Let me guess,” said Dean. “Not a member of the Crowley fan club?”

“No, in fact, I guess they've actually clashed before. As you could figure, there aren't a whole lot of dead Babylonians these days, so there supposedly lots of unused real estate in Irkalla.”

“So Crowley-”

“Attempted an incursion,” said Sam. “It didn't work, but I guess Nergal swore vengeance.”

“An angry pagan god. Oh joy,” said Dean, just as the waitress plunked a chocolate milkshake down in front of Cas. The angel's eyes crossed as he beheld the miracle that was blended ice cream, whipped topping and a cherry.

“More whipped cream?” asked Dean, stealing a finger full from the top. “We're gonna have to scrape you off the ceiling tonight, buddy.”

“Why would sweetened dairy product affect my gravitational pull, Dean?” Cas asked will utmost seriousness as he gripped the straw and took a generous sip. He goggled, eyes wide, and drank some more. “This is.... This is....”

“What?” asked Dean, rudely grabbing the straw and sampling for himself. “Yeah, it's a milkshake. Real ice cream,” he added approvingly.

“You've decided you like milkshakes, Cas?” asked Sam, knowing the angel regarded his free will choices of menu items with great gravity.

“This beverage is … better than pie!” pronounced Cas, taking another guzzle. 

“Say WHAT?” asked Dean, a look of betrayal tracing his handsome features.

Cas’s smile was smug. “Yes, it is definitely better than pie. Also, I am not surprised that Crowley's hostile move against Irkalla was unsuccessful.”

“First off,” said Dean, once again pulling the milkshake towards him, “NOTHING is better than pie. Secondly, why aren't you surprised?” He took a generous sip. 

“Because,” said Cas, grabbing the milkshake back. Condensation dribbled down the metal sides of the glass.

The waitress glided by, tossed a second straw on the table, winked and Dean and Cas, and hurried off.

Sam turned around in his seat, calling, “Hey, I'm the single one,” after her. Dean tore open the straw and stuck it into the angel's milkshake. Sam turned back to face his brother and Cas, now both drinking from the same glass. “You know, you guys, this is a little … sickening.”

“You're just jealous she didn't bring _you_ a straw,” said Dean. And any further conversation was postponed as Cas and Dean, glaring at each other, attempted to guzzle down the milkshake in record time.

The waitress returned just as they were slurping up the dregs, handing out plates of burgers and fries and salads and fried chicken and then ketchup and honey mustard dressing and maple syrup and all of the rest. 

“What the heck did you end up getting, Cas?” asked Dean, pointing a french fry at Cas's utterly confusing platter.

“This is chicken and waffles, Dean.”

Dean squinted uncertainly at the meal. “Why would you get waffles with your fried chicken?”

“Why would you get fried chicken with your waffles?” added Sam, spooning dressing over his salad and taking a considered bite. He frowned and began to shake pepper over the lot.

“That is an unholy combination, Cas,” pronounced Dean.

“I am making up my own rule book, Dean,” countered Cas smugly as he carefully smoothed whipped butter on the top waffle and then poured maple syrup over the entire concoction.

Sam swallowed his slightly wilted salad and halfway wished he had demanded a third straw for Cas's milkshake. “So, Cas, what was it you were saying about Irkalla?”

Cas was carefully lining up a bit of waffle with a chunk of chicken on his fork. “Yes, I was not surprised that Crowley's move against Nergal and Irkalla failed. Firstly, Nergal was not just a deity of the underworld, but also of wrath, and of war. Whereas Crowley is....” he shrugged and took a bite.

“A little Scottish dickbag,” said Dean.

“Secondly, Irkalla's design was not the same as that of the Western Hell. It was heavily fortified.”

“Oh yeah,” said Sam, pushing his fork around his salad plate and then pulling his laptop over. “Check it out! It says here that it had seven gates.”

“That's right. Souls entered, but never departed. This is excellent!” Cas said of his dinner choice 

Dean began to dig in – to Cas's plate. “So, we got an angry war god with an impenetrable fortress of doom. Sounds like a Bond villain. Great.”

“Dean,” Sam pointed out. “You’re eating Cas’s dinner and you haven't even taken a bite of your burger yet.”

“I gotta check out Cas's Abomination Special.” Dean sawed off generous slices of poultry and pastry and crammed it all in his mouth. “DAMN!” he said.

Castiel glowered, nevertheless wiping off a bit of syrup from the corner of Dean's mouth with his thumb.

“How do you keep picking the awesome meals?” Dean asked. “You've only had free will like five minutes!” He pulled Cas's plate in his direction and dove in.

“You gonna eat that?” Sam asked about Dean's neglected meal. Without waiting for an answer, he reached across the table and grabbed Dean's burger.

“Hey! I _was_ gonna eat that!” mumbled Dean through a mouth full of Cas's dinner.

“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” Sam, who was a legal scholar, smacked. “God, it's a wonder your arteries haven't already exploded,” he marveled, pulling out a piece of crispy bacon from between the bun and burger and then cramming it into his mouth.

“So, how we gonna pick the locks on seven gates?” asked Dean around a mouth full of chicken. “I take it this guy prob'ly has a security system, like the usual rabid, three-headed dog?”

“May I taste your salad, Sam?” asked Cas. Sam pushed the plate across the table towards the angel. “There are guardians along the way, located at each gate,” he told the brothers, taking a bit of lettuce on a fork. He sampled a bite and then made a sour face. 

“You're supposed to bribe them with clothes and jewelry,” said Sam, peering at the computer screen, and dribbling secret sauce from Dean’s erstwhile burger on the keyboard. He attempted to wipe it up with a paper napkin. “You evidently drop another article of clothing with each guy.”

“Wait,” said Dean, screwing up his face. “Your pants?” Cas and Sam nodded over their borrowed food. “So, getting in is like Babylonian strip poker?”

“As I mentioned before, Dean,” said Cas, who was now pouring maple syrup over a lettuce leaf from Sam’s salad, “obtaining entrance will not be the problem. It's getting out. Especially for you and Sam, as you are mortals. It might be safer for me to enter alone.”

“Cas, you're not!” scolded Dean.

“Dean, I promise I will not take any unnecessary risks.”

“No!” said Dean. “I mean, you're not pouring syrup on that salad,” said Dean, staying Cas's hand as it poised, bearing maple syrup, over Sam's Chinese Chicken salad.

“It tastes better, Dean.” He held out a fork full of syrupy salad at Dean.

“It couldn't taste worse,” shrugged Sam, stealing another fry from Dean's plate.

“You really think we need this Nerdly dude on our side?” asked Dean around a glob of syrup-soaked salad.

“Nergal!” chorused Cas and Sam. “And, yeah,” Sam continued. “If we ever wanna see the other half of that demon tablet he’s holding, we gotta make things uncomfortable for Crowley.”

“I'm not good with Cas going it alone though,” mused Dean, pulling Sam's salad plate closer to his place, which was already crowded with his own and Cas's original dinner plate. 

“Dean, you can't!” protested Sam.

“I can be nervous about Cas!” sputtered Dean. “I just got him back from Purgatory.”

“No, I mean, you're now stealing _two_ of Cas's dinners?” asked Sam, pointing to the trainwreck of dishes clustered around Dean.

“You stole my burger,” Dean pointed out. “Anyway, the deal with Nergal is Sam and I are going with you, Cas, so no arguments.” Dean looked to Sam, who nodded.

“If you say so, Dean,” said Cas softly, though he looked unhappy.

“No arguments!” Dean repeated, sliding a fork full of fried chicken in the maple syrup into his mouth. “And I think we need to call in some more guns.”

“Not Garth,” said Sam, rolling his eyes heavenwards. “Besides, he's busy with the Trans.”

“Yeah, especially Mrs. Tran,” muttered Dean. “No, I mean, if it's a trouble for mortals to get out, we gotta call in a guy who's not mortal.”

“What … oh,” said Sam, who now morphed into full metal bitchface mode.

Cas had suddenly rounded on Dean. “I am not going into Hell with the … the vampire!”

Dean smiled fondly and squeezed Cas’s shoulder. “Aw, c'mon, Cas. He saved my butt, and yours.”

“I don’t trust him,” muttered Sam. 

Cas just glared. “I am fully capable of carrying this out on my own.”

Dean sliced himself a mass of chicken, waffles and salad. “Cas! You are not going to Hell alone. No way! Like I said, no arguments.”

The two locked eyes for a long moment, but then there was an “Ahem,” and all three men looked up to see the waitress standing at the table. For some reason, she had a big grin on her face.

“Can I get you boys anything else. Another shake?”

Cas grabbed his empty milkshake glass and handed it over to her. “Yes, I will have another chocolate milkshake, please. _With only one straw_ ,” he added, shooting a glare at Dean.

 

“They don’t get along?”

“They get along just fine! Just fine!” Dean assured his brother as they pawed through a pile of T-shirts at Good Will. “Whoa. Motley Crue,” he said, pulling up a black shirt and holding it up to himself. 

“Cas and Benny?” asked Sam, leaning against the table. “Are buddies?”

“Well. There are just, you know, cultural differences. They argue. Sometimes. Like we do. But it’s nothing.”

“I fail to see the point of this exercise,” stated Cas, who had just walked up. Sam stifled a laugh. The angel was swaddled in what looked like half a rack of clothing, flannel over dress shirt over T-shirt over undershirt, as well as a pair of jeans that looked to be at least two sizes too big. “What is wrong with my customary clothing?” He crossed his arms and glared.

“The key is layering,” said Dean, who started to fiddle with Cas’s outfit. “We're bribing the gate guards with clothing, remember? You don’t wanna get to the seventh gate wearing just a tie, right? Go negotiate with Nergal in your birthday suit?”

Cas shot a questioning glance at Sam.

“Dean means naked, Cas.”

The angel’s cheeks turned crimson. “No, I would not like that, Dean.”

“We just need to get you a jacket,” Dean told the angel.

“What about my coat?”

“I’m not giving over your trench coat to some demon rent-a-cop! We’ll go get you a cheap jean jacket or something.” He tugged at Cas’s belt loops. There was a pretty big gap between denim fabric and angel waist. “And a belt. Damn, we need to feed your more.”

“Maybe if you didn’t eat his dinner for him,” chuckled Sam.

Just then, a large, jovial man with a scruffy beard ambled up. “So am I in time for the fashion show?” he asked.

“Hey, Benny!” said Dean, shaking his hand warmly.

“Sam,” said Benny, nodding in his direction.

“Benny,” muttered Sam through gritted teeth.

Benny turned. “And look at Cas! You cleaned up good, friend. Like a shiny new penny.”

Cas got an extra-smitey look on his face. “You look … precisely the same,” he told Benny.

“Cas!” said Dean.

“Oh, Cas, where is thy sting,” laughed Benny, putting a hand over his chest.

 _“The sting of death is sin; the strength of sin is the law,”_ recited Cas. 

“Boy knows his scripture,” said Benny, nodding.

“I’m an angel,” grumped Cas.

“Thought you were an atheistic angel?”

“That’s a recent development.”

“OK OK OK,” said Dean, stepping between them and putting his hands up. “We’re all gonna be in this together. Can we retract the fangs and bring in the wings and just everybody fucking get along?”

Both creatures stopped to study Dean for a moment, and then Benny stretched out a meaty paw towards Cas, cocking an eyebrow at the angel. Cas looked at the hand, cast a skeptical glance at Dean, who nodded encouragement, and then extended his own hand to shake Benny’s.

“See? Now, give me five minutes, and I could solve the Mid-East crisis!” chirped Dean.

“Hey, Cas,” said Sam. “I saw some belts over this way.” He inclined his head, and, with a final scowl at Benny, Castiel followed him to another part of the floor.

Benny cast a shrewd glance at Dean. “You got your angel back, brother.”

Dean was already back pawing at the T-shirts, but he cracked a huge grin. “Yeah,” he said. And then he shrugged. “It’s a long story, to be honest. Dumb son of a bitch didn’t wanna leave Purgatory.” The smile faded.

“That was clear enough. To anyone who had eyes,” said Benny.

Dean looked up, catching the rebuke. “I wasn’t gonna leave him, Benny.”

“That was pretty damn clear, too.” Benny smiled, putting a hand through the T-shirts. “No shame in that, Dean. You’re loyal. As well as completely off your ass insane.”

“I’m just…” Dean began, now looking up. “He doesn’t remember how he got out. I know he didn’t go with me.” Dean shook his head. “With us. Makes me nervous.”

“Oh, so now you’re looking your little gift angel in the mouth?”

“I don’t like being screwed around with,” Dean muttered darkly. 

Benny nodded and picked up an Allman Brothers tee. “So what’s on the agenda?”

“You came before you even heard my carefully-rehearsed speech,” said Dean.

“I owe ya one, brother. I don’t forget my debts.”

“Just my luck, a House Lannister vampire,” grinned Dean. Benny looked confused, so Dean waved a hand. “Don’t worry. It’s some books Sammy likes. But they won’t be finished in our lifetimes. Either of us. Anyway, we’re marching on Hell.”

Benny stared. “You know, I’ve lived a full fucking century, half of that in Purgatory, and you are still the craziest motherfucker I think I have ever encountered. Congratulations.”

“It gets even crazier. This is a drunk-off-its-ass Babylonian Hell. I guess you have to bribe the palace guards with clothes, so we’re stocking up.”

“You give the guards a ratty T-shirt to pass in?” asked Benny, holding up a Poison T-shirt.

“Whoa, dude, that’s a classic!” said Dean, grabbing it from the vampire’s hands. “Every rose has its thorn!” he recited.

 

Sam had a big belt buckle shaped like the state of Texas held up to his belly for size. “That scripture you guys were quoting, Cas? Was that Corinthians?”

Cas was awkwardly threading a belt through his pant loops. He nodded at Sam. “Yes. That chapter touted my Father’s eventual victory over Death.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think Death would have been amused by the notion.”

“So, hey,” said Sam, setting down the belt buckle and hopping up to sit on the sturdy wooden table beside a pile of battered toasters and other household appliances that had seen better days. He picked up a waffle iron and fiddled with it. “I don’t know what you think about Benny….”

“What about Benny?” asked Cas, pausing to stare at Sam. 

Sam looked up, but then looked back down towards the waffle iron as if it was the most interesting item on earth. “Uh, you know....”

“No, Sam. I'm afraid I don't know.” 

Sam didn't need to look up to know he was probably getting the patented Castiel Countenance of Celestial Confusion. “Um. I didn’t wanna make a big deal about this in front of Dean. But do you trust the guy?”

Cas was quiet for a beat. Sam opened and closed the waffle iron, but finally looked up. Cas’s eyes were blazing like two blue sapphires. “Benny saved my life. And your brother’s life. Dean thinks he is worthy of trust.” As if that was the end of it.

Sam fought down a shudder. Avenging angels, not big on shades of grey, he thought ruefully.

Cas went back to doing origami on his belt. “Benny was the one who told Dean of the escape route from Purgatory. He is the one most responsible for your brother being here, with you, today.”

Sam stole a glance at Cas, who was no longer glaring at him, but he still felt the rebuke. “Dean doesn’t talk a lot about what went on in Purgatory….”

“There are monsters. Sometimes you run from them. Sometimes you kill them.” Cas looked up at Sam again. “And sometimes … you are killed.”

“What the hell are you doing with that belt, Cas?” asked Dean, who had just walked up along with Benny.

“Human clothing is unintuitive,” the angel grumbled. 

Without bothering to ask permission, Dean grabbed the twisted leather and unwound it, and then deftly looped it around Cas’s waistband. “We may have to make you another notch,” said Dean, pulling it tight, “but this should be OK.”

“I fail to see the point of this garment,” said Cas suspiciously.

“It’s so your damn pants don’t fall down around your ass,” laughed Dean.

“Isn’t that nice? Playing dress up with your angel.” 

Dean looked around in shock. They had been surrounded by a number of clerks and other customers, all of whom now wore unpleasant expressions. There were a couple of big guys among them, including the dude who had spoken, but there was also a little old lady and a skinny teenager in the bunch. “They are possessed,” whispered Cas.

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean told him. “What do you want?” he asked the demons.

“The rest of our tablet,” said the guy who’d spoken before. “You don’t have your little goth friend and her boyfriend to babysit you this time.”

“No, you’re right,” said Dean. “Just an angel, a vampire…. Oh, and me and my brother,” added Dean, taking a step forward and crowding the guy’s space. The demon's confidence seemed to crack a little.

“Dean,” warned Sam. “I think they’re just people from the store.”

“Yeah, yeah,” sighed Dean. “Civilians. Can you guys do non-lethal?”

Sam looked dubious, but Benny cracked his knuckles and grinned. “Oh, you just wanna make it more fun, don’t ya?”

Cas looked around and then nodded to Dean.

And then Benny and Dean heaved over the table, scattering demons and small appliances. Sam turned and clocked a rather large attacker over the head with the waffle iron. Cas snapped off his new belt and cracked it at a couple of them like a whip. And then what happened next looked like a snowball fight, only with dented toasters and broken blenders flying through the air instead of snow. Sam crouched behind the overturned table and began to recite, quickly as he could, the Ritual Romanum at double time, _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritusomnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio….”_

The store was soon clouded with foul-smelling black smoke, as the unlucky victims of possession one by one belched out their demons and collapsed.

“Crowley?” asked Sam, as Dean hunkered down beside an unconscious little old lady to check her pulse. Her neck thrummed reassuringly beneath his fingers.

“Seems likely,” said Dean, standing and shaking his head. “We should get out of here before they wake up. They’re not gonna be in a good mood. Cas, grab your clothes.”

“I see the point of this garment now!” said Cas, once again snapping the belt so it wound around his hand.

“That is actually … sorta cool,” muttered Benny.

Cas was stooping down to pick up something on the floor. It was a dusty little tin toy of an angel. He grabbed it and stared at it, fascinated.

“All, right, yes,” said Dean, snatching it away from him. “We’ll get you a toy too. Now grab your crap and let’s get the hell outta Dodge.”

“We are not in Dodge, Dean. Dodge is in Kanas.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 5 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 80,000  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, every rose has its thorn.

 

_Cas's wing tattoos, by zsomeone_

“Report!” Crowley barked at the Assistant Demon, Second Class who stood at the head of the seemingly endless queue of damned souls that stretched down the labyrinthine main corridor. It was time for His Majesty’s Grand Rounds of Hell, his second favorite part of the week (after his Monopoly game with Ken Lay).

“Sire, wait time this month has increased by eleven minutes per soul,” the demon reported.

“See?” asked Crowley, casting his eye around the small crowd of apprentice demons who had been trailing him like ducklings of the damned. “A success story! Carry on!” he told the Assistant Demon. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, pausing for a brief moment underneath the oil portrait of himself in uniform mounted on the wall so his interns could take cell phone pictures of their glorious leader. Then the party continued down the hallway, pausing outside a door that was covered in warding marks.

“Now,” he said, gesturing at the guard stationed outside the doorway, “this is our top priority, so everybody look sharp.” They all crowded into the room.

An excited murmur went up from the demons who had been following around the King of Hell as they espied the broken object sitting in the middle of the table. “This,” said Crowley, as if it were not obvious, “is the Word of God.” There was more muttering, and cell phones came out once again as Crowley cooperatively posed in front of the tablet. “We are attempting a translation with these magical objects,” he explained, pointing around the seemingly random crap strewn around the table. 

“Translation, and the location of the other tablets, is our highest priority!” Crowley continued.

“How will we achieve this, sire?” asked one of the interns.

“It’s very simple, lad,” said Crowley, coming over and putting an affectionate arm around the boy’s shoulders. He smiled indulgently, and then, as the apprentice squirmed, bellowed, “Kill the Winchesters! Kill the Winchesters! Oh, and yes, KILL THE WINCHESTERS!”

“Your Majesty, aren’t the angels also seeking the tablet?” asked another apprentice as the first demon attempted to dab off His Majesty's spittle from all over his face with a handkerchief.

“The angels?” mocked Crowley. “The angels couldn’t find their own feathery arses with a flashlight. Believe me, we find a permanent solution to the plaid-draped Hardy Boys and the world will be ours. Now! Who wants to see hellhound feeding time? Let’s get over to the arena! There will be donuts, but NO COFFEE!”

There were smiles and nods, and some whispered comments as to how this King of Hell had really thought of _everything_ , and then the room cleared, the door quietly closed and locked.

One of the party, who had somehow gotten left behind, emerged from an especially dark corner. He was wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up, so his features were lost in the shadows. He approached the table, extending a hand towards an object that looked for all the world like a throwing disk. 

He placed two fingers on the discus.

The tablet, sitting a few feet away, suddenly emitted a strange hum.

“It’s not for translation, you know,” said a female demon who had also evidently been left behind.

The hooded figure turned to face her. “No?” he asked.

“It’s for tablet _location_. But the King of Hell doesn’t know that.”

“Interesting.” Their locked eyes for a moment. “May I ask why you’re telling me this?”

“May I ask what the fuck your feathery ass is doing down in hell?” retorted the demon, arching an eyebrow. She extended her arms. “Can’t you tell? I’m a lady in distress. I want out, Mr. Jordan, and I want out now.”

He frowned. “I wasn’t really interested in the tablet, to be honest. I’m here looking for someone.”

“And you found me,” she told him. “Ain’t you a lucky ducky? And let me tell you, you want a bargaining chip, they’re all obsessed with these freaking tablets.”

He tilted his head. “So, I raise you from perdition….”

“And get your hands on the Frisbee of Doom,” she chortled.

“And I should believe you because….?”

She put her hands on her hips. “You shouldn’t, idiot. I’m a demon. Duh!”

 

“OK, Benny’s parked out back for the night,” said Dean, slamming into the motel room. 

Sam was seated at the room’s only table, hunched over his laptop. “Did he, uh, wanna come in?” he asked, though he looked a little grudging about the invitation, especially given it was not even his hotel room.

Dean got a sour look on his face. “He’s feeding. Believe me, you don’t wanna let him come in. That slurping sound!” He shuddered.

Cas, who was back to wearing his customary rumpled suit, was sitting on a bed rooting around in the duffel bag Dean had given him for his collection of extra clothes. “We should take care with Benny,” he said, holding up a T-shirt to stare at it. “Among other things, Nergal is a sun god.”

“We’ll bring some Coppertone,” grunted Dean. “How many jobs does this Nergal dude have, anyway?”

“Sun, fire, destruction, war, the underworld…” said Sam, ticking off on his fingers. “Oh, and he also guides the planet Mars. You sure this is gonna be worth it, Dean?”

Dean looked stubborn. “If Crowley doesn’t want us to go enough that he’d throw an entire thrift store at us, then, yeah, worth it.” Cas had pulled out the tin angel he had found on the floor of the thrift store and was holding it up, turning it over and over. “Don’t let us interrupt you with your friend, Cas,” Dean snarked.

“I have never had … possessions before,” said Cas. He carefully stroked the angel’s wings. “It’s … an odd experience.”

Dean, who was going to let forth with some more snark, paused instead. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Hey Cas, let me do that,” said Sam, walking over to Cas. He held out his hands, and Cas, somewhat reluctantly, offered over the angel. Sam carefully turned the tin toy over and ever so gently wound the little lever in back and let it go. With a mechanical whirr, the angel began to flap its tiny wings.

Cas watched, open-mouthed. “It’s a miracle!” he whispered.

“It’s a wind-up toy, Cas,” said Dean, shaking his head.

Sam grinned as if he had just revealed the secret of the ages. He turned the tin angel over once again when it wound down, and pointed to the little crank. “You have to be careful not to over-wind it. That could break it,” he said, depositing it back in Cas’s trembling hands. While Sam stood over him, nodding in approval, Cas reverently wound the angel again, and then literally let out a small whoop when it once again began to flap and whirr.

“Great, Sam,” grumbled Dean. “Now we’ve lost him for the evening.”

“You didn’t have anything planned with him did you?” grinned Sam, who headed back to his laptop while Dean glared. “Oh, and one last thing: I’ve been reading about our friend Nergal. He’s kind of an usurper down there in Hell.”

“Who did he surp, and why?” asked Dean, wandering over to kibitz on the laptop.

“That’s not a proper verb form,” Cas answered, “and it was his consort, Ereshkigal.”

Sam pointed to the laptop. “See, she was sole ruler down there, and then she somehow pissed off some of the other gods-“

“Those fertile crescent deities were all too thin-skinned, if you ask me,” grumbled Cas, once again winding up his angel toy.

“-And they sent the war god down to kill her, but then he ended up staying and becoming co-ruler.”

Dean squinted at Sam. “So she’s sort of his captive?”

Sam gnawed on a fingernail and stared at his laptop. “Well, it’s not like she’s a shrinking violet. She once imprisoned her own sister.”

“Babylonian Hell is Melrose Place? That’s just dandy.” Dean looked over to Cas, who was still playing with the tin toy. “Hey, don’t wear it out,” he scolded.

Cas reverently wrapped the little toy in a T-shirt and then carefully made a place for it in the duffel bag, which he then zipped up and set on the floor. Dean went and sat beside him. Cas looked up and beamed at Dean. “Those are my possessions,” Cas told him.

“Yeah,” said Dean. His voice had taken on a funny quaver.

“You know what?” said Sam, loudly banging the laptop shut and then clattering up in his seat. “I think Benny is not the only one who’s hungry. Why don’t I go grab some takeout? You know, go out for an hour? Or so?”

Dean, who seemed distracted, pulled the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them Sam’s way without taking his eyes off Cas. Sam caught them one-handed. 

“Any requests?” asked Sam, one hand already on the doorknob.

“Uh,” said Dean. He blinked at Cas, and then turned around to Sam. “Don’t forget the pie.”

“When have I ever forgotten pie?” laughed Sam, giving the door a firm slam on his way out.

“You always forget pie!” groused Dean to the back of the door. He glowered, and then turned back to Cas. “Hey, this bed has a headboard.”

“Is that relevant, Dean?” asked Cas.

Some time later, Cas’s hand was gripping the headboard, white-knuckle tight, as the angel shuddered and moaned.

Dean paused what he was doing long enough to send two hands lightly over the gorgeous tromp l'oeil wings inked on Cas's pale back. “So beautiful,” he murmured. His personal angel, he thought. 

The angel whispered his name. Dean lowered his hands, and forced Cas's thighs further apart. His angel. His own glorious divine being.

Dean began to thrust again, keeping everything slow as hell. 

“Yes, I'm yours,” Cas muttered. 

Dean paused again and wrapped his arms tightly around the angel's chest. “Are you reading my mind?”

“Yes. Don't stop. Yes! It was … unintentional.”

Dean tightened his grip and put his head down in the middle of Cas's back. He closed his eyes. “Read this,” he muttered.

The only sound was Cas breathing, and then suddenly, he arched his back and let out a terrific moan.

“Like that?” chuckled Dean, kissing Cas between the wings. “Well do that next time. When we have more time....”

 

“We all ready to beam down?” asked Dean as they assembled in the parking lot the next morning. Sam yawned in answer. Dean imagined that his brother had fallen asleep over the laptop again last night. They had stayed up a little later than he had intended, first Sam bustling in with a tubs of Chinese – and no pie, just fortune cookies. Dean already knew his damn fortune: _you will never get pie, Dean Winchester._ Cas of course dawdled forever as he was supposedly exercising free will to decide between the chow fun and the kung pao, and then Sam made it worse by trying to show him how moo shoo worked _and_ how to use chopsticks, both at the same time, resulting in a plum-sauce-and-cabbage-coated angel. And then Benny somehow invited himself in, and they were going to teach the angel to play poker, only at first he refused to bluff and kept losing, but then there was more beer and suddenly he was kicking their mortal and undead asses.

And now here they were today, still half asleep (except for Cas of course who didn't sleep) hauling gym bags full of ratty used clothing and supplies they were gonna use to bribe their way into some half-assed Babylonian Hell, on the slim chance that the management might agree to form an alliance against the King of that other, Judeo-Christian, version of Hell.

“We are going to the site of Ereshkigal’s main temple, in Babylon,” said Cas.

“Oh. And where is that on an actual map?” asked Dean.

“Iraq,” yawned Sam.

“Wait, what?” asked Dean.

And then, with the beat of wings, they were there no more.

 

“Come on, Cas, you’re just gonna trade this stuff away anyway,” groused Dean.

Cas looked up from the bag of costume jewelry Sam had toted along. He was grasping a necklace of puka shells. “These are marvelous, Dean. An entire string of miracles. Why don’t all humans wear them?”

Dean rolled his eyes, grabbed the necklace, and draped it over Cas's head. “There. Good.”

“I seen rag dolls that had more style,” laughed Benny. Dean nodded. It held for all four of them, standing in the middle of the fucking desert near a crumbling mud brick wall, all arrayed in as many layers of clothing as they could bear, as well as sporting some ridiculous pendants and baubles Sam had grabbed from the Salvation Army before it got overrun with demons. Benny, who somehow still managed a modicum of dignity (it may have been the wraparound sunglasses) was sporting a still-working mood ring on one pinkie finger. Sam had somehow topped his look with a fringed jacket that had seen better days and a purple cowboy hat, making him look like a thrift shop Hendrix. Dean had left his own beloved leather jacket back at the motel, and far out of the clutches of greedy gate guards, instead wore a battered jean jacket with “Sweet Dreams” lettered out in rhinestones on the back. He had grabbed at the jewelry bag kind of at random. He noticed now that he was wearing a big rainbow-colored peace symbol around his neck. Guess what he planned to give away first?

“It should be this cave,” said Cas as Sam grabbed a knit cap sporting a friendly teddy bear face and ears out of his bag and pulled it over the angel’s head. “Thank you, Sam,” said Cas. Dean wondered why every single item of clothing the Cas had picked was somehow at least a size too big: he looked like he was borrowing his big brother’s hand-me-downs.

“Seven gates. I think we’re set,” said Dean, who did not at all think they were set, nor would the ever be set, but he sighed and checked to see if everyone else (maybe save Cas) was ready to stow their bags and get going.

The Winchesters grabbed flashlights, their friends having no need of such things, and then bags were zipped and hidden as best they could, and the little group started off into the cave, Cas striding confidently in the lead, Sam behind him, and Dean and Benny taking up the rear. 

The cave turned out to be a maze with junctions a-plenty. They would have to rely on Cas’s mojo to get them through this section, so all was quiet while he paused at each new passageway, squinted, and did whatever the hell it was he did to sense where they were going.

“You get the distinct impression Winnie the Pooh is leadin' us around in circles?” Benny whispered to Dean after about half an hour of this slow progress.

“We are definitely going in circles,” said Cas, who had turned around. “Can’t you feel it? We are gradually descending deeper into the earth.”

“Yeah, it’s been getting warmer,” said Sam, doffing the ridiculous cowboy hat and wiping sweat from his brow with a big red and white bandana.

“You sure that ain’t wishful thinkin’?” countered Benny.

“Do vampires even get hot?” Dean asked Benny.

Cas had gotten into Benny’s personal space. “We could leave you here, vampire.”

Benny glowered. “If you were lost, would you even admit it?”

“The point is moot, as I am not lost.”

Dean got between the two feuding supernaturals and pushed them apart, to little or no effect. “OK, enough bitching. Cas, you keep leading, Benny, back with me.” The two exchanged one more dark look, and then Cas walked away. Sam clapped him on the shoulder and walked abreast with him, as the tunnel was rather large and high in this area. 

Dean made damned sure Benny caught his look of disapproval, and then the two followed Cas and Sam.

“I got a bad feelin' about this, brother,” said Benny.

“Well, thanks for that, Princess Leia,” said Dean, “but for now we follow the angel.”

Benny grunted, something about not wearing his hair in any space buns, and they continued for a time in silence.

A few minutes later, Cas stopped dead at a junction. “What's that up ahead?” asked Sam, waving the flashlight.

“Stay here,” Cas ordered. “Turn off the light.” Sam obeyed. Cas walked down into the dark tunnel. 

“What the hell is he doing?” whispered Dean, who had come up alongside Sam.

“There was something up ahead in that tunnel,” Sam told him. “He'd going to check it.”

“Alone?”

Benny peered ahead. “I don't think you need to worry.”

“Damn right I'm worried,” said Dean. But just at that moment, Cas walked back. 

“It's all right. They're all dead.”

“Who is dead?” demanded Dean.

“Demons,” said Cas. “I have been sensing them nearby, as we've walked. Those were the first near enough to see. I believe Crowley sent them, but they lost their way and died. But this group appears to have died in combat.”

“Combat?” asked Dean. “You mean Crowley’s attempted invarsion?”

“Yes, Nergal’s forces and Crowley’s appear to have slaughtered each other. This way.” Cas pointed down the other direction of the tunnel and set off without waiting for a reply.

“So, lost or killed? That's pretty fucking encouraging,” said Benny.

About ten minutes later, Cas paused for a long moment at yet another junction. “We are near. This way!” Sam hastened after him, so Dean and Benny, who had fallen a little behind (Dean had thought it prudent to keep the vampire’s continued grumbling out of earshot), lost them around the bend. They looked at each other, and broke in to a run. “Hey, Cas, wait up!” Dean shouted. They ran around a bend with no angel in sight, and then another bend, and then another and then….

Dean slammed to a halt, and nearly got knocked over when Benny rear-ended him. The vampire gripped his shoulder, and Dean stayed upright.

“Holy mother of fuck,” said Benny.

They had come to the mouth a huge underground chamber: how large was impossible to say, as there was a high wall spanning all the way across it. Dean clicked off his flashlight, as there were lanterns arrayed up on the wall. 

The wall itself looked a lot like the ones at the archaeological site up topside, with one great difference: the mud bricks here had been scrupulously maintained, and there wasn’t so much as a single crack visible anywhere.

Sam and Cas were standing nearby, surveying the wall. “Which way to the gate?” asked Dean, hastening over to them. Sam was the one who pointed it out: it was visible from where they stood, though it looked to be maybe half a mile away. “OK,” said Dean, “everybody got your baseball cards ready for a trading session?”

“They trade clothing and jewelry, not sports memorabilia, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Literal,” grinned Dean, putting a hand to the small of Cas’s back and leading him on the charge. Cas winced, as his tattoo still smarted, but went along with Dean.

Sam and Benny looked at each other. The vampire grinned and shrugged, and they followed Cas and Dean down to the gate, which shown golden even in the dimness. Dean goggled as he came nearer. Why would a bunch of guys who had enough precious metals to gold-leaf an entire massive city gate need a bunch of pit-stained T-shirts?

And then he beheld the guard. And decided he knew why. “Did we get here on cosplay night?” he asked Cas, _sotto voce._

The guard wore an elaborate feathered headdress. He was clad from neck down to about mid-thigh in more feathers. And nothing but feathers. As the guard was quite tall – even taller than Sam – the effect was not unlike a Vegas showgirl drag queen.

Cas spoke to the guard in a strange, squawking language Dean guessed was ancient Babylonian. The guard studied them for a moment, and then said, in perfect English, “Enter now the realm of Irkalla.” He posed like Carol Merrill displaying the Price is Right final showcase, and the gate magically opened for them.

“Uh, you don’t want anything?” asked Dean, who paused before the gate. The guard stared at him, but didn’t speak. Dean nodded to the others, and they made their way through.

“Welcome to the place from which no one ever returns,” said the guard once they were all through. And then the gate closed behind them with a bang.

“Well,” said Benny, “that was right friendly.” 

“Is Irkalla like the Vegas of Hells or something?” asked Sam.

“I thought Saturday night in Las Vegas _was_ Hell,” muttered Dean.

“The departed spirits wear feathers here,” Cas told them.

“Sounds itchy,” said Dean. “So, we’ve got gate one of seven. You see the next gate, Paddington?” he asked Cas. They were now standing in a narrow corridor between two walls. 

The next gate actually was actually in sight, and the guard was making it easier by jumping up and down and waving at them. “Yo!” he shouted, waving his arms around.

“They must not get a lot of visitors these days,” Dean mumbled. As Team Free Irkalla neared this guard, it became apparent that the second guy was a lot different from the first gate guard. He was much shorter for one thing, and for another, was not visibly wearing feathers, although a few stray feathers did drift off of him when he hopped up and down. He was instead clad in even more layers of clothing than Dean’s group: it looked like bits and pieces from every era. On the very top was a lady’s silk gown, and he also had a long string of opera pearls. He had long dress slacks on under that, but also visible was a pair of pantaloons.

“I need an article of clothing. THEM’S THE RULES!” the second gate guard hollered as they approached. He reached out and snatched Sam’s purple cowboy hat off his head and affixed it to his own, over the golden tiara he was already wearing.

“Hey,” said Sam. “I liked that hat.”

“You did?” said Dean. 

The guard was already snatching at Benny’s shades, but the vampire pushed him away, stating, “I need these.” Instead he pulled off his mood pinkie ring and gave it to the guard. The guard hungrily grabbed it and pushed it on his middle finger. Dean noticed he was already decked out like Ringo Starr, with rings, and sometimes multiples, on every finger. Some were simple, like wedding bands, and some held precious jewels. 

Dean offered up his Sweet Dreams jean jacket, as it was making him sweat. And Sam grabbed off Cas’s knit teddy bear cap and tossed it to the guard. It looked a little awkward over the cowboy hat. 

“Enter then Irkalla,” said the guard, opening the gate.

“Yeah, we know, the place you never return from,” Dean told him. The guard flashed a grin at Dean, and he noticed the guy had a gold tooth.

“Two for seven!” said Dean as the gate closed. “We’re making record time. Hey, there’s the next guard. The elder Winchester boldly led the way to the next golden gate.

The next guard dude was all business. “Three questions travelers. First, identify yourself,” he barked at Dean.

“I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam, Castiel the, uh, angel, and Benny Lafitte.”

“Second, what is your purpose here?” asked the guard.

“We’d like to see Nergal,” said Sam, who got a finger pointed in his face for his efforts. 

“ONE spokesman per group, if you please,” the guard scolded.

“We’re here to see Nergal,” said Dean.

“Third question: what is the terminal velocity of a an ACP cartridge fired from a Colt semi-automatic pistol into a ten mile per hour head wind.”

“What? I don’t know-“ said Dean.

“Wait, it’s-“ said Cas.

There was a whooshing sound, somewhat akin to the beat of Castiel’s wings. Dean felt rushing air, and then a thump as he went sprawling on the ground. He sat up and whipped his head around, just in time to feel something being snatched from around his neck. He looked over to see the second gate guard, dancing around with his rainbow peace symbol necklace.

“Three hundred meters per second, depending on the manufacturer,” said Cas, who was seated, nearby, also on the bare ground.

“Fucking son of a bitch,” muttered Dean as he stumbled to his feet. “Is this some kind of freaking video game?” 

“I need an article of clothing,” the gate guard was singing. “THEM’S THE RULES.”

“We already gave you stuff,” groused Sam, rubbing his bruised posterior. The guard was already grabbing at his threadbare fringed jacket, so Sam gave it up.

Dean felt a clap on his shoulder. “Maybe if we have a little pow-wow before we answer the question next time?” Benny asked Dean. “Seems like angel knew the answer.”

“OK, OK, I’ll consult with our small arms physics expert next time. Come on, let’s give over our crap and go.”

So, one layer lighter, the boys returned to the third gate. Dean identified himself and repeated their quest.

The gate guard grinned. Dean felt his stomach sinking.

“Third question: who was the American League batting champion in 1941?”

Dean muttered, “Oh shit” and turned to his consultants. 

“DiMaggio?” proposed Sam. “Williams?”

Dean looked at Benny, who shrugged. “I assume Ty Cobb weren’t playin’ no more.”

Dean looked at Cas, who simply shrugged. “OK. Joltin' Joe DiMaggio,” he guessed.

A whooshing sound told him he’d guessed wrong.

“Son of a bitch! I knew I should have chosen Ted Williams.” Still on his ass, he shrugged out of a flannel shirt and handed it to the gleeful second gate guard.

Dean’s patience was wearing thin after a few more rounds of being foiled by the trivia-loving third gate guard. There had been questions about opera, Olympic tennis, the cultivation of sorghum, big band trumpet players, the history of Argentina, classical ballet, aerial navigation, and puppeteering, none of which the collective brain trust had any knowledge about. What was most distressing was that the second gate guard had started to pick them clean. Cas was down to shoes with no socks, his baggy jeans and the string of puka shells, to which he seemed oddly attached. Benny was barefoot, which he didn’t seem to mind at all, and besides that had his slacks, suspenders, an undershirt and his treasured sunglasses. Sam was down to just his jeans and boots. Dean himself wore just the Poison T-shirt with his jeans, though he had managed to keep both shoes and socks. 

“OK,” said Dean once they made it through the second gate yet again., “We gotta get through this time, or else we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other,” he sighed. The others nodded, Benny and Cas looking relatively serene, but Sam pulled a major bitchface to make up for it. “I liked that hat,” he grumbled.

The third gate guard’s grin was wide and shifty this time. 

“This don’t look good, friend,” Benny muttered to Dean.

The guard looked straight at Cas this time, and asked, “Third question: how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”

Cas glowered and suddenly strode up to the guard so he was nearly nose to nose. The startled gate guard took a step back. 

“Cas!” warned Dean, who was afraid they would get sent back before they even got a try.

“Do you mean … Seraphim, Ophanim, Elohim, Malakhim, Cherubim, Kingdoms, Thrones or Dominions?” Cas demanded.

“Uh. I don’t know?” said the gate guard.

There was a whooshing sound. 

And now the four men stood alone at the third gate, which slowly swung open. 

Dean strode forward and grabbed Cas by the shoulder. “This is my angel, everybody!” Benny hooted and clapped.

“Now, let’s see what else we gotta deal with,” sighed Sam.

“No, I think I got the hang of this now,” said Dean. Ignoring calls from his brother, he stormed through the third golden gate, and marched right up to the fourth guard beyond. This guy was clad in feathers and a raggedy robe, and frankly looked surprised to see anyone.

“Who the fuck are you and why should we put up with your crap?” Dean demanded of him.

“Uhhhh,” muttered the guy.

And then there was a whooshing sound. The guard disappeared.

“Fourth gate! We’re halfway there, gentlemen!” announced Dean as another golden gate opened.

The guard at the fifth gate was a big, barrel-chested dude who didn’t talk much. He decided he wanted to fight. Cas made short work of him with the angel blade. 

“I always thought you kept that thing in your coat sleeve,” said Dean as the fifth gate opened.

“Of course I don’t,” said Cas as the blade disappeared from his hand.

Dean squinted at him. “OK, I’m not gonna ask you where you keep it,” he said. “Two more gates,” he told everyone.

The guard at the sixth gate was another pushover. “WelcometoIrkallathosewhoenternevermayleave,” he muttered as he ducked his head and opened the gate.

“I think our reputation precedes us, boys,” laughed Benny as he watched the guard skitter away. 

“Last gate,” said Dean, though he was getting nervous. He suspected that visitors rarely got past the third guard, so they were probably panicking in the inner circles. That meant you didn’t know what to expect. Which sometimes was no good.

The last gate guard stood calmly at his post. This one had a distinct Obi-Wan Kenobi look to him: he had a grey beard, and was wearing a hooded robe instead of the feathers. He held up a hand to Dean and his friends.

“What is your name?” he asked in a voice weathered by the ages. Dean made the introductions. “What is your purpose here?” the guard asked.

“We wanna meet with Nergal.”

The guard nodded. “And … what is your philosophy?”

Dean grinned. “I got this!” he announced happily. And then he recited, to everyone else’s dismay, _“Every rose has its thorn/Every night has its dawn/Every cowboy sings a sad sad song.”_

The guard did not speak, though Sam emitted a small moan. “Hey, it worked in the movies,” Dean whispered to him.

The guard flipped down his hood. He didn’t look quite as ancient without it, although his hair was as grey as his beard. “You’re a … hair metal fan?” he asked incredulously, pointing at Dean’s T-shirt.

Dean shrugged. “Naw, I’m actually a classic rock fan. But hair metal was better than grunge.”

“WHAT?” interjected Sam. “How can anybody not like grunge?”

“It had its moments. But too much whining,” grumbled Dean. “I prefer thrash to glam,” Dean told the guard.

Benny leaned over towards Cas. “What are those boys jawin’ about now?” 

“Have you ever gotten a chance to ride in Dean’s car?” inquired Cas.

Benny nodded, and Cas cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the noisy crap he plays over the speaker system? Hurts my ears, what they’re doin’ to them guitars. Now, gimme a little zydeco or some blues: that’s music.”

“I prefer the music of the spheres myself,” noted Cas. “Although Metallica is not bad. On occasion.”

“I can’t belieeeeve you don’t admit Nevermind was a cultural landmark!” Sam was whining.

“I you wanna spend your time listening to a spoiled millionaire kid whine, then go ahead,” said Dean. Dean and Sam both looked up at the sound of creaking.

The last golden gate had opened.

“You are clearly in possession of a philosophy, Dean Winchester,” said the guard smiling down on them. “Welcome to Irkalla.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes: the movie Dean is referring to is Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, where the boys fake their way into heaven using Poison lyrics. And the three questions from the third gate guard was obviously stolen from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
> 
> I'm going to try and keep up a Sunday/Tuesday/Thursday posting schedule. I'm estimating this is going to be 17 chapters total.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 6 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. 

 

Almost every soul dwelling inside the Babylonian hell of Irkalla was clad in feathers. Much to Benny's dismay, if his loud sneezing was any indication. Sam reached for his shirt pocket, only to realize there was none, as he no longer wore a shirt. “Sorry, dude, gave my hanky away to the guy at the second gate,” he told Benny.

“Allergy to down,” said Benny, wiping his nose on his sleeve. As he, at least, still had a sleeve. “Maybe that's why we never got along so good,” he told Cas.

“Your reaction is probably not to feathers but rather to dust mites,” supplied Cas.

“You got mites?” Dean asked Cas, who looked terribly offended.

“Guys,” said Sam, “we gotta focus. We gotta find Nergal and talk turkey.” The party watched a crowd of feather-clad dead wander by just then. “Uh, so to speak?” 

“And remember-“ Cas started.

“Cas, _we know_ ,” grumbled Dean.

Cas glared at Dean. “I am not in contact with the host here in this realm, so I am not at full power. Be careful what you do. And what you say!”

“Why are you looking at me?” said Dean.

“I did not want you to come,” said Cas, his eyes narrowed.

“Well, you got us buddy, so tough luck,” laughed Benny, who ended the snicker with a sneeze.

They ceased bickering for a moment to look around. Even though they had now arrived at the city proper, to Dean at least, it really didn't look altogether that different from what they'd spent the past day traveling through: just a bunch of mud bricks and dust. It was definitely an improvement on his own experience in Hell, as he didn't see anybody being tortured, but he had to wonder if it was worse to be eternally tormented, or to live out your days choked on dust and basically bored silly. 

Just then, a muscular, straight-shouldered individual came before them. Unlike most of the other residents, he was clad in a real cloth tunic. “You are to be presented at the Court of Nergal, Warden of Irkalla.”

“Well, that saves a heap o' lookin',” said Benny as the messenger turned on his heel and marched off, apparently expecting them to get in line and follow. They hastened after him, down a dusty roadway or two until they came to a vast courtyard at more or less the center of town. It looked like many of the residents had assembled here. The plaza was about as big as a football field. The feathery crowd was turned towards the far end, where there was a large building that looked like it might be the ruler's residence. It had a huge open porch in front, and there were already people out there, including two people sitting up on elaborate thrones set up on a raised dais. 

“You see where our guy went?” asked Dean, as the messenger dude had somehow disappeared into the crowd. Everybody shrugged, and Benny sneezed, his nose turned red at the mass of feathers.

“That's gotta be Nergal getting ready to speak down there,” said Sam, who, as he was taller than almost everybody here, could peer over the crowd to the dais. He regarded the assembled mass of feathery spirits. “You guys up for a little crowd surfing?”

Dean laughed. “This can't be worse than that Slayer concert.” He and Sam slipped into the crowd.

“I have no idea what they're talking about,” said Cas. 

“No clue, friend, I'm just gonna follow the tall one.” Benny smiled and inclined his head, and the two followed Sam and Dean, carefully threading through the dead souls, trying to keep the back of Sam's head ever in sight even when Benny had to pause to sneeze.

“So what's the big attraction of ruling this place, ya think,” Dean asked Sam as they picked their way through the strangely passive crowd. “I mean, it looks like dust and feathers and more dust to me.”

“Better to reign in Hell than to serve in heaven,” Sam quoted.

“Aw, you're not quoting Lucifer now are you?”

“You asked why. Oh, check it out!” They had finally come to the front edge of the crowd and could look up and see the group of royals and retainers who had assembled. “I think that's Nergal and Ereshkigal,” Sam told Dean, pointing to the two large thrones sitting in the middle of it all.

Nergal, for his part, was sitting slumped in his chair, one leg crossed up over a knee. He was barefooted, and Dean could have sworn the guy was actually sitting there clipping his toenails. This was confirmed when a nail seemed to fly off and landed with a plink in somebody's goblet.

“Oh, gross,” muttered Dean.

And then beyond Nergal was Ereshkigal, who seemed to be taking things a little more seriously. She sat erect: even seated you could tell she was quite tall and slim. She was clad in a long black silk gown, had long black hair, and had obviously done her eyes with a lot of black kohl. Most intriguing to Dean, she had two great, dark wings folded up neatly in back of her. 

“Not bad,” said Sam with a low whistle.

“What? You mean winged Angelina Jolie over there?” asked his brother.

“She ain't bad,” opined Benny, who had just made his way through the crowd along with Cas. “Not my type though.” He sneezed as if to make a point.

Dean smiled and looked back at Cas, who was now standing beside him. The angel appeared puzzled for a moment, and then said, “Oh, you want me to assess her level of sexual attractiveness?” Dean nodded. “I am afraid I have eyes only for you in that regard.” 

Dean's smile broke into a grin, and he reached out a hand, but then stopped. There were no lapels to grab. “Did you wanna borrow my shirt?” Dean asked Cas, tugging on the Poison T-shirt he was wearing.

“Then _you_ would have no shirt, Dean.” 

“Yeah, but....”

“I am less vulnerable to variations in temperature than you. But I appreciate the gesture,” Cas told him. 

Dean's fingers finally found one of Cas's belt loops, and so he held on there. Dean looked down. “Uh, are you happy to see me or something?” he said, noticing the bulge in the angel's jeans. Cas reached into his pocket. He pulled out something: it was the little mechanical angel he had found at the thrift shop.

“Dude, you brought this all the way in here?” asked Dean as Cas wound it up. “You would've been better off packing another shirt.” Cas shrugged and watched the angel flutter.

“Hey, Dean,” whispered Benny. “Your buddy's attracting some attention.” Dean turned to where Benny indicated, up to Ereshkigal's throne. There was a new person visible up on the rise: a small child peeking at them from behind Ereshkigal's armrest. Dean assumed his was the queen's kid, as he had her dark eyes and dark hair. And right now, the eyes were wide as two little standing pools, staring straight at Cas and the fluttering tin toy.

He must have spotted them gazing at him, because he suddenly disappeared again behind the seat. Ereshkigal turned her head the direction he had disappeared, and cast one hand in that direction, as if she were patting his head. Her lips edged into the ghost of a smile.

Cas nervously pocketed the angel once more.

“Who wishes to stand before Nergal?” some bearded muckety-muck was saying.

“That's our cue,” whispered Dean. “C'mon!”

The four men moved across the front of the crowd so that they were standing in front of the thrones. 

“I'm Dean Winchester,” said Dean, who proceeded to make introductions. Ereshkigal turned her regal head in their direction. 

Nergal slumped lower in his seat and began plucking his nose hairs with tweezers. “Yeah? Who sent you?”

“Uhhh,” said Dean.

“Ewww,” whispered Sam.

“Our great friend, and yours, Sri Vibhishana, and his uncle, Lord Yamaraja, have sent us,” said Cas.

Nergal suddenly snapped to attention, not, though, at Cas's words, but rather at Castiel himself. He stared at Cas. “You're an angel,” he said.

“And you're a genius,” muttered Dean, who got an elbow in his ribs from Sam for his trouble.

“Yes,” said Cas. Ereshkigal's wings rattled just a bit, and the little boy once again poked his head up above her chair to stare.

“Why are your wings just painted on?” sniffed Ereshkigal.

“I have real wings,” said Cas mildly. “They are often difficult for non-angelic beings to visualize, other than through astral projection.”

“I can see Erie's wings just fine, thank you,” said Nergal, who got up and stumbled down the stone steps to come stand right in front of them. Dean sniffed the air. He was pretty darned sure the dude was drunk. He was also not a being of great stature: he was even shorter than Cas. “Sonny and Cher in hell,” he muttered.

“Yes, they are very fine wings,” Cas told Ereshkigal.

“Thank you. So are yours,” said Ereshkigal, her voice low and soft.

Dean looked back up to the porch. Ereshkigal was now standing, the little boy beside her. She rattled her wings just the barest bit, sending up a small cloud of dust. The little boy giggled and jumped. He had a small pair of wings as well. She looked down at him, and he calmed down. Dean noticed a stirring around him. The seemingly passive spirits of Irkalla seemed to orient to Ereskigal's voice.

This seemed to annoy Nergal, who glared. “Everyone else!” he yelled. “Dismissed!” The assembled crowd of spirits turned and, with surprising speed, shuffled away and out of the square, disappearing into the now quiet city, leaving nothing but dust and stray feathers.

Benny sneezed.

Soon there was no sound but a wind that occasionally howled between the buildings. Other than Dean and his friends, only Nergal, Erishkala, the little boy, and another dark-haired boy – a teenager, from the looks of him – remained. In addition there were several grim-faced individuals wearing regular clothes that he took for guards.

“And why would an angel, a vampire and the _Winchesters_ be favoring me with a visit?” asked Nergal, studying his fingernails.

“Uh, it actually concerns Crowley-” Sam began.

The god was suddenly standing directly in front of Sam. “Your head should not be higher than that of the king when you speak!” he scolded. 

Sam, making a herculean effort to keep his face blank, crouched down so he was shorter than Nergal. “Uh. We have a situation up topside with Crowley.”

“And what is that little upstart doing these days?” asked Nergal. With a grin, he sat down on the steps, forcing Sam to sit down on the ground in order to keep his head lower.

“He's in possession of a tablet-” Dean began. Nergal waved a finger at him, and Dean, not bothering to cover the annoyed look on his face, plopped down in the dirt next to Sam. “Right now, he's got a tablet – or actually half a tablet – that's evidently the word of God about demons.” 

“And what do I care about fractional tablets? Even if they are from the One God?” asked Nergal, who now lay down on a step, his head propped up in one arm. He gave the Winchesters a mischievous glance. 

Sam and Dean looked at each other. With a groan, Dean lay down flat on the dusty ground. He sneezed and said. “It's not just half a tablet, your majesty. He's trying to track down more of them. He wants to corner the market.”

“Nevertheless. No one has seen hide nor hair of the One God in years. Why should I heed to his word?”

“Because this is a power gambit by Crowley,” said Cas. “We have heard he's already attempted to make an incursion into your territory. You must have realized demons were in the vicinity.”

“Head!” scolded Nergal, pointing up at Cas.

“Angel knees do not bend,” stated Cas.

Nergal blinked up at him, and Sam and Dean looked over at Cas as well.

“Oh, I knew that,” said Nergal, now springing to his feet. “Anyway, yes, Crowley's demons. We put some disorientation spells on them. I didn't take it seriously.”

“And the men I found with the demons? _Your men?_ ” asked Cas.

Nergal's expression darkened. “Anyway, you have come at an inconvenient time. We are busy. Very, very, very busy.”

Dean turned and looked around the deserted square. “Uh. Busy. Yeah.”

“Much kingly business. I will take this under consideration. Now. You are all dismissed.” Nergal turned his back to them and waved a hand.

“Uh, you know, your majesty-” Dean began.

“I said dismissed!” snapped Nergal. And quite suddenly there were a number of very big, very unfriendly looking guardsmen between Nergal and the foursome.

Dean shrugged, and then he, Sam, Cas and Benny too made their way out of the square.

“Busy man,” muttered Benny as soon as they'd made their way to an alleyway. “My sweet aunt.”

“Angel knees don't bend,” muttered Dean as they walked down the alleyway. Cas actually smirked. 

“So what do we do now?” Sam asked.

“I guess we wait,” said Dean.

“But how long, Dean?”

“Dean!” Cas had stopped. The others turned. The little boy who had been playing around the throne was now there, grabbing on to the angel's pant-leg. Dean, Sam and Benny stopped as well.

Dean walked over to Cas. “Hey there,” he told the boy.

_“Ninazu!”_

The voice belonged to Ereshkigal. It was a lovely voice, like trickling honey. The little boy lifted dark eyes towards his mother, but did not move.

“Hey, wait,” said Dean. “Cas, can you take it out again.”

Cas frowned, but then went into his jeans pocket and brought out the tiny tin angel. Ninazu stared at him, open-mouthed. Dean grabbed the toy from Cas, and then squatted down so he was at eye level with the boy. “You're Ninazu?” He got a nod in return. “I'm Dean,” he said. And then he would up the little toy and let it run, with a whirr and a flutter of tin wings. Ninazu gasped, putting his fingers in his mouth with the sheer wonder. Dean let the angel go until it ran down, then he turned it over and showed Ninazu how to wind it.

And then, with a look up at Cas, who frowned but didn't move, Dean set the angel in Ninazu's trembling hands. The boy stood stock still, but then his own wings set up a little rhythmic flap. 

There was now a slim hand on his shoulder. Dean looked way, way up into Ereshkigal's dark eyes. She must have been almost as tall as Sam. There was another, older boy standing beside her, dark-haired and winged like his mother. He, though, wore a rakish grin. 

“These are my boys, Ninazu and Namtar,” said Ereshkigal. 

Dean stood up. “Hello,” he told Namtar, the older boy.

“Crowley's a dick,” said Namtar.

“Language,” chided Ereshkigal, although she was smiling.

Benny sneezed. “Uh, excuse me, ma'am,” he apologized. He looked down. Ninazu was standing beside him, gripping the little angel toy with one hand, and extending another upwards.

“You should bow your head,” Ereshkigal suggested. “He will heal your illness.” Benny frowned but then, wiping his nose, did as she said. Ninazu reached out two little fingers and touched the vampire's brow. There was a slight glow, and a little hum. 

Benny straightened up. “Wow. What was that?” He felt his nose, which was no longer red and runny. “Did you do that little man?”

Ninazu giggled and ran back to his mommy. “I wished to speak with you,” the goddess told them. “My husband is sometimes not so adept at phrasing things.” 

“What … did he really mean, then?” asked Sam.

“We will of course join your alliance to counter Crowley,” she told them. “I believe we will prove to be stronger together.”

“Oh, that's f- flipping great, your majesty!” said Dean, reaching out to shake her hand. He realized just after he'd done it that maybe royal people didn't shake, but Ereshkigal extended her hand anyway. 

“Now,” she said, gripping Dean's hand. Her touch was soft as silk. “I might advise you to leave, and quickly, the way you came in.”

“Okay, and we appreciate it,” said Dean. 

Everybody turned to go, including Cas, who suddenly stopped. He looked down to see little Ninazu hugging his leg. The boy pulled back, and held up the little tin angel, cradling it in both hands.

“Yes. You are welcome,” said Cas formally. He nodded, and then the four men started making their way down the alleyway.

“Awww, weren't that cute,” chuckled Benny, reaching out to ruff Cas's hair.

“Do not touch me, vampire, if you wish the continued use of that hand.”

“Why didn't he hug me? _I_ gave him the toy!” Dean complained.

“It was _my_ possession,” grumbled Cas.

“Hey. Is this the way we came in?” asked Sam.

“Cas?” asked Dean. The angel nodded, and led them on a left turn. “I just wanna get outta here, get our crap back from that asshole guard, and go get a burger....”

They stopped short. The alleyway was blocked by some grim-faced guards.

Dean turned around. And of course, their escape route had now been blocked as well.

“I guess there's no need to ask if we're gonna fight or gonna run,” said Benny.

“No way you can mojo us out of here?” Dean whispered to Cas, who only shook his head in frustration. 

“I could stay and kill enough of them for you to run,” Cas suggested.

“No way. No fucking way.” And then, “Oh shit,” as Nergal had just appeared in their midst.

“I don't remember you asking to leave.” Nergal was picking at a molar with a toothpick.

“Nergal. We don't want any trouble,” said Dean “We're just gonna go out, the same way we got in.”

“You need to say, 'May I?'”

Dean was just about to say something much more colorful, but Sam grabbed his shoulder and spoke first.

“May. We. Leave. Your Majesty?”

“Ah, yes. Certainly. But through the _back_ door.”

“The-?” Dean began.

“I don't like the sound of that,” said Sam. 

Dean counted to ten. “Look, we wanna- May we leave the same way we came in?”

Nergal smiled and tossed away the toothpick. He came and stood nose to nose with Dean, though because of the height difference, it was more nose-to-sternum.

“No.”

And then there was a whooshing sound. A really, really big whooshing sound. Dean felt the wind knocked out of him as he was flung through the air, and then again as he hit the ground.

He jerked up. They now seemed to be sitting in the middle of the desert. Cas was already up on his feet, on top of a sand dune, staring in to space. Benny stood beside him, looking even more grim than usual, and the two were, strangely enough for them, having a quiet conversation.

Dean struggled to his feet, and then went to help Sam up. “Cas! Where in hell are we?”

Cas took a moment to answer, seeming to come out of a kind of trance. He and Benny walked down to where Sam and Dean were standing. “You are correct, Dean. We are still in Nergal's realm. I can sense our world from here, however. It is in that direction.” He pointed off into the distance. It all looked the same to Dean.

“Well, that's good,” said Dean, who was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Right?”

“However, it almost one hundred miles away.” Cas was not looking at Dean, though, he was looking at Benny. 

“Well, shit,” said Dean, looking between himself and his brother. “Can you mojo us?”

“Unfortunately, I am still too far away from the host. I- I do not have my normal powers here.”

“One hundred miles,” muttered Sam. “In the desert? With no water? Dean?”

Cas was still staring hard at Benny, who, after giving Sam and Dean a long appraising glance, finally said, “You take the big one.” 

Cas nodded. “Let's get going,” he said quietly.

“Cas-” Dean started, but felt himself pulled along by Benny.

And so they marched. The party was more subdued than usual. Oddly enough, unlike the real desert, the sun never seemed to set: it seemed perpetually at its zenith.

Dean sweated. And then, after a time, he stopped sweating.

Feeling the sun baking into his skin, Dean pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around his head, like Lawrence of Arabia. His thoughts drifted to water. And root beer floats. A large cola, with tinkling ice cubes. Iced tea: a whole gallon of iced tea. Why hadn't he ever appreciated iced tea before? When they got back....

There was a soft noise. Sam had fallen over. Dean, feeling oddly passive about the whole thing, watched Cas scoop his little brother into a fireman's carry like he weighed nothing, and then continue to walk. “He's carrying my brother,” Dean laughed, his throat like sandpaper.

“Yeah, he is,” said Benny, who had a hand gripped around his waist.

“That's weird,” said Dean. “Hey. You’re really sunburned, dude.”

“That I am.”

And then they walked some more.

And then Dean was at a tea party. On the freeway. It was weird. Cas was wearing a floppy hat and asking, one lump or two?

And then....

Dean woke with a start, spitting water. “Come on, brother, you need to drink this shit,” urged Benny, who was sitting over him. The vampire poured a splash of water over Dean's head, and then poked the bottle towards his mouth again. 

Dean blinked, desperately attempting to focus his eyes. Benny was red as a beet. He grabbed the water bottle with shaking hands. He manged a swallow, and then spat it out again. He tried again. 

He was sitting on a chaise lounge. An old, dusty chaise lounge. On some kind of patio. They were sitting around a pool. Only the pool was empty. They were beside some kind of deserted high rise building.

“This is a weird dream,” Dean managed to rasp.

“Ain't no dream,” said Benny.

Dean heard the sound of wingbeats, and Cas was there. Only it was not Cas, because he was only wearing jeans and nothing else, and he had a bad sunburn. His tattoo was sunburned. The wings were black and red.

He was carrying something. Blankets. Dean got a blanket draped over him. It was midday, why was he cold?

“Found a hospital,” Cas was telling Benny. He held out a red packet to the vampire. 

“Glory be!” said Benny. He grabbed the plastic packet and a blanket, sat on the ground, and made himself a little tent. Dean thought he heard slurping coming from beneath the blanket. 

“Are you hydrating, Dean?” asked Cas. He had picked up the bottle. Dean hadn't realized that he'd dropped it. 

“Hard. To swallow.”

“I will find you a rehydrating sports drink of some kind. That will be more effective. Stay here.” And then the flapping, and Dean flopped back in the chair.

“Dean!” Sam shout-whispered. Sam came stumbling up and sat beside him. He too picked up the bottle. “You should hydrate,” he said tiredly. 

“What the hell. Sammy?”

“Bastard Nergal stranded us in the middle of the fucking desert!” groused the blanket containing the vampire.

“How did we. Get out?” said Dean, making another attempt with the bottled water.

“Cas and Benny _carried_ us,” Sam rasped. Dean looked up at his brother, burned and blistered and huddled in a rough blanket, and wondered if he looked that crappy.

“Shit,” said Dean. A little bit of water managed to trickle down his throat. It felt like paradise.

“Worried about you. Cas ... pretty freaked,” said Sam.

“I found a convenience store,” said Cas, who had just shown up to the sound of wingbeats, cradling an armload of Gatorade bottles, or whatever the local knockoff was called. He knelt down beside Dean and handed him a bottle of purple liquid.

“You can't mojo us. Better?” Dean managed to ask him.

“I am not yet back to full power,” Cas confessed. Dean looked him over. He looked just as bad as the rest of them, physically, as well as anxious as hell.

“Then you sit here. And recharge.” Dean weakly pushed down on Cas's shoulder. Cas sat down hard on the patio. Dean tried to open the Gatorade bottle, but found it made him dizzy, so Cas popped it for him. Purple-flavored paradise flowed over cracked lips. The angel had been right: it was easier to keep this stuff down. Benny, who must have been done feeding, poked his head out of the blanket, and Sam picked up his own bottle of Gatorade. And they were silent for a moment.

“What is this place. Anyway?” huffed Dean.

“It was a hotel. Before the Iraq war,” Cas told him. 

And then there was a soft sound of wingbeats. Dean frowned. It was Namtar, Ereshkigal's oldest son. “Are you guys OK? I'm sorry, we couldn't help you, not when you were in my stepdad's domain. That would have sucked if you hadn't made it.”

“Yeah. It would have sucked,” agreed Dean.

“Whoa! You're pretty sick, dude.”

“Yes. I'm pretty sick. Dude.”

Namtar whistled. “Hey! Squirt!” There was a very soft flapping sound, and suddenly, little Ninazu was standing beside his brother, staring up at him. “Can you do your stuff?” Namtar asked, waving a hand at Sam and Dean and the others.

Ninazu toddled over to Benny, wings flapping in the breeze, and laid a hand on him like before. Then he touched the foreheads of Sam, who had to lean over very low, Dean, and finally, Cas. In an instant, they were in the flush of health, all the sunburn and dehydration gone.

“Thank you,” Cas told him. He was still sitting on the ground.

Ninazu threw his arms around Cas's neck and gave him a sloppy toddler kiss on the cheek.

Cas turned bright red, only this time not from the sunburn.

And than Ninazu toddled back over to his brother. “He likes you,” Namtar told Cas. Ninazu waved bye-bye and then disappeared. “So, what I'm gonna do, I was gonna pay a visit to Crowley,” Namtar told them.

“Is your power...?” Sam started. “Do you do what your brother does?”

Namtar's eyes grew wide. “Oh, no, dude. My power is the opposite.” He grinned. And disappeared in a flurry of wingbeats.

“Oughta be interesting, “ said Dean.

 

The King of Hell sat alone at the head of a large banquet table in his ornate dining room, supping on a finely cooked meal. His meals had been well prepared since he made mincemeat out of the last two or three chefs. He paused in the middle of sipping his vintage Bordeaux to consider. Was it two or was it three chefs? Well, no difference. “Send the chef in here,” he muttered to a serving minion, who scurried off. It was good to be king, of that there was no doubt.

He paused for a moment, scratching under his arm. He would complement the man on a well-prepared meal, and then smite him in front of everybody. Had to keep those minions on their toes. He dabbed a napkin at his face, and then reached under his suit jacket to scratch again. He wondered if he was allergic to his laundry detergent. That might be a bit of fun, he supposed, blowing up his cleaning personnel. He withdrew his hand and winced. It didn’t just itch, it hurt like the dickens. He scowled, momentarily regretful that he had used his last personal physician as hellhound chow. It _really_ itched….

The chef had appeared, red-faced, escorted by two of his larger minions. 

“Did you prepare this- Wait a minute,” Crowley told him. 

“Are you OK, boss?” asked one of the goons.

“Shut up,” Crowley politely replied. And the goon did as he was told. All three now watched as Crowley doffed his jacket and then pulled up his dress shirt.

An angry red rash spread around his side. There were blisters spread among the inflammation, some of them popped and oozing. 

The chef made a noise. “What?” barked Crowley, eyes blazing at the guy.

“Shingles,” said the chef. “Yeah, my aunt used to get them.”

“Shingles?”

The chef pursed his lips. “Yeah. Like if you’ve had chicken pox. You need to get yourself some calamine lotion. Yeah.”

“Calamine lotion. You two idiots! Go get calamine lotion.” And with that the two goons skittered out of the room.

The chef nodded. “You should be OK. It usually goes away in a couple weeks.”

“WEEKS?” fretted Crowley.

“I could make you an oatmeal bath. That would help. Yeah. Oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal bath,” said Crowley. He was still itchy and pained as hell, but the chef’s words were a small comfort.

“Yeah. And some ice packs. You can use a pack of frozen peas.”

Crowley nodded.

“But like I said, you should be okay. Yeah.”

“It will heal itself?” 

“Yeah, you should be fine.”

“Fine?”

“Long as it doesn’t spread to your face. Yeah.”

Crowley looked up from his ugly rash to the smiling chef. He wrinkled his nose.

His face itched….

 

“Poison,” said Dean, regarding Cas's T-shirt.

“Poison,” answered Cas. 

Dean sat on the motel room bed beside Cas. “So, I guess I kinda gave away your angel toy.”

“You did,” said Cas, narrowing his eyes. “And so I took your Poison T-shirt in retaliation.”

“Oh, okay.” Dean watched Cas hover his fingers over the laptop. “You like that shirt.”

Cas stopped typing. He grabbed the shirt's collar, and held it up to his nose. “I've noticed that after you wear a garment, it will pick up your aroma. I find it … pleasant.” 

Dean slid over to kneel on the bed beside Cas. He grabbed the laptop away from Cas and carefully placed it on the bedside table. “Now. Gimme back my shirt.”

“No.” Cas blinked up at him. And then he glared. “Make me.”

“Aha!” said Dean. “You are stronger. And faster. And older. And smarter. And better looking.”

Cas smiled. And nodded.

“But I fight dirty!” Dean announced, just as he pushed both hands up under Cas's T-shirt and began to tickle him unmercifully under the arms.

Cas emitted a gasp that was at least two octaves in pitch above his normal speaking voice, and then promptly toppled off the bed.

“Cas! You OK?” asked Dean, caught between concern and hilarity, staring down at the angel on the floor.

Cas raised himself up on one elbow, breathing hard. “What was _that_?”

“Tickling? You don't know tickling?”

“It is … a cruel form of attack,” said Cas, clambering back up onto the bed. He cast a suspicious glance at Dean, and then pulled up his Poison T-shirt, and began drumming his fingers under his own armpit. “Why is this ineffective?” he asked.

Dean was lying back on the bed, looking smug. “You can't tickle yourself.”

“You can't tickle yourself?”

“No, you can only tickle other people.”

Cas looked at his fingers, looked at Dean, looked at his fingers, and looked at Dean.

And then he smiled.

Dean suddenly tensed.

“What? Wait! No! CAS!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 7 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you freak over that, you should probably go take a nice warm bubble bath and read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** As will be blindingly apparent this chapter, my AU storyline fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. I apparently lack not only the talent but sufficient sadistic inclinations to function as a Supernatural scriptwriter. Oh well.

 

_A few months ago...._

“You just need to stop taking risks like that,” Dean cautioned as the motel room door opened.

“I only take such risks as are warranted for the completion of the job,” Cas told him, stepping in after Dean.

Dean slammed the door shut. “Cas, you know as well as I do that your powers have been acting funky since Purgatory-”

Cas heaved a very human-like sigh. “There is also an expression, Dean, _you're not the boss of me.”_

“I wish I was. I'd kick your feathery ass.”

Cas crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I'd like to see you try.” He glanced around the room, seeming to sense something. “Where is Sam?”

Dean tossed his pack onto one of the room’s two beds where it wrinkled up the weird the purple and blue bedspread. “Off doing research. I told him it's a wild goose chase-”

“Should we go to pick him up?”

Dean wasn't looking at Cas. “Naw. He's hundreds of miles away. Picked up a rental car, staying a night. Or two.”

Cas was staring at Dean. “Is everything … all right?” It was something he wouldn’t have commented on, only a year or so ago. 

Dean shook his head. “I think he just needed a day or so away. From me!” He looked over at Cas. “What about you? You staying?”

“I’ll leave if you require some time alone....”

“No. Jeez. I got this whole room to myself.” Dean gestured around at the amaranthine and indigo splendor which was his hotel room. “At least stay for dinner.” He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the bed next to his pack, and then sat down on the bed opposite.

“Angels don't require food, Dean.”

“I can't eat a whole pizza myself. If you can down a hundred burgers, you can have a slice. I mean, to be polite.”

Cas’s resolve softened. He didn’t want his friend to eat alone. That seemed … wrong somehow. “Well, I wouldn't want to be rude. I suppose.”

“Good. Let's get your coat,” said Dean, standing up and going for Cas's trench coat.

“Why should I remove my coat?” asked a very flustered Cas. Dean might as well have demanded he strip naked. 

“Look, you're the one who wanted to be a hunter, right?” said Dean, yanking off the coat and tossing it next to his. “You should start learning how to at least fake being human. Humans don't sit around a warm hotel room in an overcoat.” 

“I might prefer to keep my coverings intact in this particular hotel room,” Cas grumbled, eyeing the odd sea-themed wallpaper.

“Let's get the jacket too.”

Cas cooperatively held out his arms, but said, “Dean, you're already aware that I'm not human.”

“But other people don't know. The pizza delivery guy, right? Plus, it gets on my nerves when you always look like you're ready to get out the wings and fly off. There!” Dean tossed Cas's rumpled suit jacket on top of his coat, and then turned to Cas's wrist. 

“And what are you doing now?”

“Rolling up your sleeves,” said Dean, carefully folding the fabric of Cas's dress shirt over and over. “Other arm. See, now you look like a human guy who's relaxing after a job.”

Cas regarded his little-seen forearms with great curiosity, and then spared a wistful glance his coat and jacket on the bed. It occurred to him that now he would have to gather up bits of spare clothing before he departed, and he wondered if this had in fact been one of Dean's motivations. Humans were awfully particular about goodbyes. Especially _this_ human.

“OK, now what do we want on the pizza?” asked Dean who had a yellow phone book splayed out on the bed. 

Cas came to stand beside Dean, and squinted at the page. “Hawaiian?”

“Are you kidding, dude?”

“No, Dean, I do not jest about pizza.”

“Well, anyway, it has pineapple. No fruits anywhere near a pizza! Who do you think you are, Sammy?”

“Aren’t tomatoes technically a fruit?”

“Cas.” There was a warning tone in Dean’s voice.

“It says here there are small sizes available,” said Cas, reaching over Dean to point at the page.

Dean slapped Cas's hand away. “Cas! I'm not getting a single serving pizza. Those are for losers.” They faced each other now, nearly nose to nose, over the phone book.

“There are apparently many subtleties to ordering a pizza, evidently,” said Cas, as they locked eyes.

“Yes. Now, here is the important question!” Dean leaned forward just a fraction. “Should we go with double pepperoni, or meat lover's?”

Cas tilted his head. “Meat lover's?”

“Good choice,” said Dean, twisting around to grab the phone. Cas hopped back as Dean nearly collided with him. While Dean called in an order, Cas picked up the remote control and turned on the television, hoping that this motel might have the Discovery Channel. He liked the Discovery Channel.

He was clicking around when Dean set down the phone and ordered him to stop clicking through channels and back up. The television ended up on a program with several doctors and nurses in a hospital setting. Cas immediately recognized that this did not depict occurrences at a real medical facility, but was rather a television melodrama which rarely showed views from space.

“It's the new Dr. Sexy MD!” said Dean with barely concealed glee. He kicked off his shoes and hopped back up on the bed that was not piled with coats and hunter gear, back resting against the headboard, patting the space beside himself. “Come on! Sit down. Let's watch.”

Cas remained standing. “I thought you didn't appreciate my viewing this program with you, as I asked too many questions.”

“C'mon Cas, it'll be fine.”

Cas looked skeptical, but sat down next to Dean, who barked out one word, “Shoes!” and then went back to staring reverently at the television. Cas bent over and carefully untied his shoes, pushing them underneath the bed and feeling anxious and half-naked. And then he took his place, leaning his back on the headboard beside Dean, stealing a quick glance at the hunter sitting beside him, so close he could smell his perspiration and hear every soft breath.

He folded his hands carefully in his lap and attempted to keep his questions to the minimum, although, for once, Dean didn't seem as annoyed as he usually was when his favorite show was interrupted. He was actually holding forth to Cas on the trials of Nurse Piccolo when there was a knock at the door.

“Pizza man!” said Dean, springing off the bed.

“Ask him whether or not he truly loves the babysitter,” said Cas distractedly.

“What?” said Dean as he opened the door. 

Dean paid and grabbed the pizza box, and then flopped back down on the bed, placing the large flat box between them. “Oh. Hey. The pizza man and the babysitter. I get it. Cas. That's funny.”

Cas selected a small-ish slice of the meat lover's special, and then relaxed back against the headboard. They watched and snacked on pizza for a while. Following the last commercial break, Cas remarked, “There is one thing I fail to understand about this show.”

“Only one thing? What's that?” Dean had tossed the empty box on the floor and slid down to lie on his back, his head propped up on the pillow, hand on his full stomach.

“All of the doctors, nurses and patients are portrayed by exceedingly attractive actors. I know from visiting actual hospitals that this is not realistic.”

“Maybe not, but every movie, every TV show, every _everything_ has good-looking actors.”

“Some of them have even undergone cosmetic surgical procedures in order to make their countenances more pleasing to the eye.”

“Well, we're not all as lucky as you, I guess,” said Dean, rubbing his belly.

“What do you mean? One glimpse of my true form is enough to burn out the eyes of most mortals.”

“I mean.... You know.... Your vessel, I guess.”

Cas glared down at his body, as if it had betrayed him.

“You gotta notice,” said Dean, somewhat painfully rolling over on his side to face Cas. “I mean, the girls that come talk to you when we're in a bar?”

“I had assumed they desired sexual relations.”

Dean chuckled. He ran his hand across the bedspread between them. Who had picked these colors? Someone on an acid trip? “But you never … try anything.”

Cas shrugged, and pulled his knees up to his chest, wiggling his toes and wishing for his coat to tug around himself. “Perhaps those women are not the persons with whom I would like to achieve intimacy.”

Dean appeared to parse sentence carefully. “So there is someone? Someone you'd like to … whatever.” He somewhat painfully pushed himself back up to a sitting position.

Cas, feeling Dean’s eyes on him, was staring defiantly at the television. “It’s not of import.”

Dean clicked the remote, and the TV picture vanished. He tossed the remote aside and scooted closer to Cas, who did not meet his eyes. “Cas, can we agree on something?” Dean’s voice was soft.

“What?”

“We've been through Purgatory together. I mean, after all the other shit, Purgatory. It's a fucking miracle that we're both out and OK. And, I don't wanna lose this, you and me, again. So, I think we should promise each other, no more bullshit. Ever. OK?”

Cas glanced over at Dean, but then continued staring at the blank TV screen. “You are saying no more lies?” Dean nodded. “But you're the one who taught me lies are essential for human interaction.”

Dean nudged closer. “Cas. You're right, yeah. But between you and me? No more lies. Understood?”

And then Dean’s hand was on Cas’s thigh.

Cas blanched. “I should go,” he whispered, swinging his legs off the bed.

Dean grabbed Cas's arm. “You don't have your shoes. Or your coat.”

“You … you did that deliberately.” He eyes met Dean’s, his feeling of stark terror echoed in them

Dean placed a gentle hand on Cas's face. “You don't need to be scared. Okay?”

“I am not scared, Dean,” said Cas. And then Dean was kissing him. Cas desperately tried to remember the pizza man and the babysitter, and what you were supposed to do, and where your hands were supposed to go, and what was up and what was down. He closed his eyes. But this was nothing like that time with Meg. It was nothing like anything else.

Dean had wriggled partially on top of him. He stifled a meat lover’s special-flavored burp. “I probably shouldn't have eaten so much pizza before we tried this,” he laughed.

Cas managed a small, fleeting smile.

“Aw, c'mon, Cas, you got pizza breath too.”

“I think I'm in love with you, Dean.” It just spilled out. Like the burp. Only maybe not as pizza-flavored.

Dean was smiling. “Tell me something I don't know.”

Cas thought about it. “You're an idiot?”

“I know that one pretty good too.” Dean lay back, grabbing Cas to pull him down, holding his own pizza-engorged stomach. “A greedy idiot.” Dean moaned. “No offense, dude, but you eat like a girl. Seriously, two slices?”

“You didn’t have to consume the entire remainder.”

Dean held his midsection. “I’m going to die. Vampires and vengeful spirits and wendigos, and the fucking apocalypse, and I died of pizza.”

“I probably shouldn't be doing this,” said Cas, frowning. He placed a hand on Dean's stomach. There was a soft glow, and then a sting.

“Ow! Oh, that worked!” said Dean, sitting up. “Awesome. Hey, you're better than Pepto Bismol.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean grinned and rolled over on top of Cas and began kissing him again. And it was all right. It was more than all right. Cas’s hands and mouth seemed to know what to do. 

Cas pushed him back. “Is this what you want, Dean?”

Dean scowled. “You know, you interrupt a lot.”

“You love me?”

Dean sighed and rested his forearms on Cas's chest. “OK, we said no bullshit. I don't know. Honestly. I think about you all the time, even when you’re not here, and I want to do some really perverted things to your body. Is that gonna be enough for now?”

“Perverted things?” whispered Cas. His eyes went out of focus for a moment as he touched Dean’s thoughts. “Oh!” he said, snapping back to the present.

“Don't worry,” muttered Dean. “We'll work up to that one.” 

 

_The present day…._

“Odin is dead. Lucifer killed him! I mean, I saw the body, Cas.”

Sam stood, arms defiantly crossed, staring down at Castiel, who was sitting awkwardly on the couch in Rufus’s cabin. Cas had just come inside, returned to the human world from afar, and was still wrapped up in his overcoat. Snowflakes clinging to his hair and his shoulders had begun to melt, leaving rivulets of water dripping down. He looked and felt disjointed and out of place.

“It does sound fishy, Cas,” said Dean, who was sitting beside him.

“Sam, what you saw…. It was a manifestation of Odin. In this physical plane.” Cas furrowed his brow with the effort of trying to pack a celestial truth into the crude tool that was the English language. 

Sam shifted from foot to foot. “Your brother stepped on the manifestation’s head.”

Cas winced at the memory, although it was not his own. “Some of the pagan gods – not all of them, but some of them – are more … _entrenched_ than that, Sam. I don’t fully understand it myself, as it’s something I think my Father didn’t fully anticipate.” He paused, cringing at his own words. The mere notion that his heavenly Father was not fully omniscient would have been enough to get Cas’s feathered butt kicked from the angelic ranks not too long ago. How far he had fallen….

“Is this what you were telling me about belief making different versions of Hell, Cas?” asked Dean.

“Yes, exactly!” Cas smiled gratefully at Dean. He was still not accustomed to making blasphemous remarks, even if they were completely true. 

Sam actually snorted. “So Odin died and then the grand legion of Vikings brought him back?”

“You can’t argue that ancient Norse mythology is a pop cultural phenomenon of note among modern humans,” said Cas. “There are movies about Vikings, books, and your musicians write songs….”

“Hey, maybe Odin is a Viking metal fan!” said Dean brightly.

“Odin two-point-oh,” corrected Sam.

Cas nodded. “Yes. This is a new manifestation. He would have his memories and probably his powers intact. But he might possibly display new powers. And I’ve been told his personality is somewhat changed.”

Sam frowned.

“As you know, the death rebirth cycle is a prominent feature of many human religious philosophies, Sam,” Cas noted. “I might be an example.” He stared down at his hands, struggling for words again.

Dean shifted on the ratty couch, throwing an arm along the back. “It’s cool. We get it Cas.”

Sam heaved a sigh. “Dean. No, we don’t get it. _I_ don’t get it. And this whole deal is getting me nervous. Look, you remember what happened last time we walked in on a group of pagan gods? The Elysian Fields?”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, eyeball soup.”

“Sam. I have met the new manifestation of the Hindu god, Ganesha.” Cas looked at Dean, his eyes pleading. 

Dean studied Cas. “Last we saw him, dude was elephant chow.”

“And how did you wing that, Cas?” asked Sam, narrowing his eyes.

“He is one of Bibi’s relatives. He is the Lord of Hosts, widely regarded as the most altruistic of deities. They are not all monsters, Sam. I believe Odin too has benevolent intentions in this matter. I believe they all do: at least, the ones we are going to meet.”

“The warm and fuzzy lords of hell?” Sam raked an irritated hand through his hair. “Look, Cas, with all due respect, last time I took a meeting with your godly buddies I ended up with my ass dumped in the middle of a desert and had to be dragged out by … by a vampire.”

“I carried you out, Sam,” said Cas. “You were too heavy for Benny to bear all that way.” Sam looked annoyed. “And do not fear, I will remain at your side for this entire encounter.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Cas, we had Gabriel with us at the Elysian Fields. Look what good that did! And you know….” He gestured towards Cas. “ _He_ was an _archangel_. And you’re…. You know. Having trouble.”

Cas slumped. 

“Sam’s got a point, Cas,” Dean said softly. “Where does Odin wanna hold this little powwow?”

“Valhalla. We will go up there and talk with him first before we arrange anything else.”

Sam didn’t hear any wings beating, be he would have sworn that Dean had teleported off the couch to stand before him, gripping his shoulders. “Sammy. _Valhalla!_ ”

“Oh, so now you wanna go party with head-banger Odin 2.0?” grumbled Sam.

“To fight the horde, singing and crying, Valhalla, I am coming, Sammy!” 

Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder to the couch, where Cas was sitting and chuckling softly. “What’s so funny, Cas?”

“I…. I never realized this. Dean didn’t believe in angels. This is his religion.”

“My brother, the pagan,” sighed Sam while Dean leapt around the room playing air guitar. “And it will be just Odin.”

Cas nodded. “Yes, Sam. Odin and one other interested party.”

Sam scowled at his brother. “I thought you wanted to be a cowboy?”

“Dude, Viking is way up on the list. Or one of the Untouchables.” Dean moved over to the couch and started tugging on the angel. “Come on, Cas, you gotta get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”

“Angels are not susceptible to bronchial pneumonia, Dean,” Cas informed him, but let himself be pulled to his feet and divested of his coat and jacket regardless. 

“We’ll toss a couple more logs on the fire and make some hot buttered rum,” said Dean, running to hang up Cas’s clothing.

“Uh. Thank you, Dean.”

While his brother danced his way into the kitchen, Sam stood in the corner, questioning his life choices. “Pagan gods,” he muttered to himself. “Skeezy motherfuckers.” And then he shuddered, though not from the cold.

 

The crowd rose as one to cheer the 8,532nd consecutive victory of the hellhounds over their opponents. Meanwhile, overlooked in an especially dark corner of the stadium, a small demon watched the King of Hell descend to the field to congratulate the great snarling beasts, indulgently handing out colorful little doggie bones.

Namtar wanted a dog. He thought it would be great if he and his brother could play fetch and take it for walks. But his stepfather had said no. Nergal was such an ass. Namtar really had no clue why his mother, Ereshkigal, put up with the fool. His mother told him he would understand, in time. He wasn’t so sure.

At any rate, she had sent him forth on these missions to Hell with strict instructions not to tell Nergal, so that was cool. He suspected that she was trying to keep them apart as much as possible. Seriously, the guy was talking about mustering an army against Crowley’s forces. It was madness: you could see that just by looking around here. All the gods mocked Crowley as a buffoon, as a pretender, but you could tell he wielded a buttload of power. Everybody, from the lowliest imp to the most fiendish archdemon, was scared shitless of the guy. And why not? He was capricious as he was mighty, seemingly only having a soft spot for the great hellhounds.

Crowley was moving off the field now. It was probably time for Namtar to go, as he was due in class in a few hours and still had a term paper left to write, but something caught his eye, and he was curious. Some kind of minion had come scurrying out of the stands and whispered something to the King of Hell, causing Crowley to storm off, through a different exit than the one he usually took.

Namtar used wing power to transport himself nearby. The trick was not to be discovered, which was really surprisingly easy down here. Even under Crowley’s iron fist, the place was pure bottled chaos. Namtar followed as Crowley and some of his retinue made their way through an unfamiliar series of corridors. 

They finally reached a darkened area of hell where Crowley’s illusion of a gloomy modern office building was dispensed and instead wove their way through a series of what was frankly underground tunnels, each more crudely carved than the last. Namtar was becoming slightly anxious, as there were fewer souls down here, and so it was getting harder to follow them unobserved. Fortunately, there were a lot of twists and turns in the tunnel, so he kept himself concealed by the passageway itself as best he could. He considered turning back, but then Crowley and his lieutenants came to a door. Namtar hid behind an outcropping and peeked. It was a big, heavy door, at least a foot thick and big as the front end of a bus, and it and the frame were completely covered in warding signs, some of which Namtar knew, some of which were elusive. 

And the giant door was cracked, all the way through. 

Now that his eyes had adjusted, Namtar could see the bloodstains scattered on the floor and wall about the surrounding area. The last set of guards had apparently not been lucky. And … there was something else staining the floor. Some kind of viscous substance pooled there. It looked dark, and thick. The door had been hastily patched with what looked like iron, and there was also a white powder scattered around. Crowley was leaning over, talking to the guards in a low voice. He pointed to the reinforcing plates on the door, and the warding symbols, obviously asking for more of each of them. 

Namtar watched with interest. Usually this kind of confrontation ended in at least one or two smitings, but to his surprise, Crowley completed his conversation and then stalked off, leaving all the other parties very much alive. He stood stock still as Crowley and his entourage strode by without paying him any mind. 

He stood for a while, trying to control his breath, listening until the hushed voices had faded to nothing. He noticed there was only one guard left stationed at the door, a somewhat jumpy looking demon. Namtar considered for a moment, and then picked up some pebbles. He waited for the right moment, and then lobbed them over the guard's head, so they landed with a rattle up the corridor, in the opposite direction from where Namtar was hidden. 

The guard started, and then, with a nervous look around, proceeded up the tunnel a few steps to investigate the noise.

Namtar crawled out from where he was hiding, and dipped a handkerchief into the weird substance pooled by the door. And then he scampered out of there before the guard saw him.

After he had put what he considered a comfortable amount of distance between himself and the broken door, he stood under the light, examining his handkerchief.

The stuff on the cloth: it was sticky and, even in the light, jet black. 

It looked like tar.

 

Odin had a firm handshake: that much was true.

Sam wasn’t quite sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Odin was wearing a suit. An expensive suit, maybe even bespoke. It was definitely much better fitting than Cas’s rumpled holy tax accountant get-up: the angel looked especially disheveled standing beside the beaming god today just outside the front entrance to Valhalla. As for the Norse god, with all this talk of a new manifestation, the guy didn’t look like he was much more than forty, and his reddish-gold beard was short and looked freshly trimmed. His eyes were bright, the blue snatched from a summer’s day sky. 

“Welcome to Asgard, Sam and Dean. About damn time I had you up in my realm!” he added, waving a finger at them. “I’ve heard you boys have decided to spend your eternities up in Heaven. Not that I’m knocking it, mind!” He cast a glance in Cas’s direction. “It’s just a little on the pale side compared to Valhalla! This is the true resting place for a warrior.” He stood back and waved an arm at his palace.

The colossal palace was constructed of a yellowy stone that made it appear golden in the slanting sun. It reminded Sam of a LEGO set he’d had as a kid. The rooftops shone golden as well: Sam had taken them as constructed from some sort of shingle, but now that he looked closely, he could see they were constructed of innumerable golden shields, all bound together. He thought darkly about godly building codes, and what happened if it sprung a leak: did they need to call one of the Lord of the Rings dwarf dudes to forge it back together?

“Uh, Odin, no offense,” said Dean, “but I don’t think we’ve got much choice in the matter. I mean in terms of parsing out our eternal souls and stuff.”

Odin clasped Dean on the shoulder. “Of course you have a choice. Everybody has a choice! But look at me, being the rotten damn host. Come in, come in, out of the cold, and we’ll have a drink. Did you want a quick tour?”

“Did I?” gushed Dean as they passed through the massive, intricately carved front doors to enter the main hall. Two huge dogs roused themselves from the porch and padded after Odin. Sam realized with a start that they weren't Huskies, as he had first thought; they were wolves. Really fucking huge-ass wolves.

Cas followed without a word, sticking to Dean like a silent shadow. As for Sam, he stood in the gently falling snow and took one last nervous look around. Cas had blipped them here, so he had no idea really where he was geographically, but from the stubby, gnarled woods and low-slanting sun he guessed, if they were anywhere on earth, it was somewhere at a very high latitude. He frowned and then headed up the broad stone steps after his blissed-out brother.

Sam passed the broad threshold and stopped dead. 

Holy fuck.

The lighting was soft and dim. After his eyes adjusted, he realized that it was because Valhalla apparently used _glowing goddam swords_ as light fixtures. There must have been hundreds of these bladed sconces lighting up the walls of the main corridor. Underneath his feet was a rich, thick carpet. He had a sudden urge to pull off his boots to feel it beneath his toes. The walls were hung with a variety of artwork, ranging from ancient tapestries to some recognizable modern art works. He peered with wonder at a nearby canvas, and then scrambled to catch up with Dean and the rest of them.

“Hey, Odin, I don't wanna be rude, but isn't that a Munch back there?” Sam asked once he was in earshot.

Odin halted. He turned around and laughed. “The pastel of _The Scream_ you mean? Cost me an arm and a leg and part of my immortal soul. A little morbid for my tastes, thank you, but very influential. And a countryman!” He beamed with pride.

“You're … Norwegian?”

“I'm incorporated in Liechtenstein. Tax purposes, you know. But, _ja, jeg er norsk!_ Even served on my country's Olympic team. Now as I was telling your brother, you probably want to see the dining hall?”

“Yeah, definitely!” said Dean.

“Okay,” said Sam, who was feeling an itch to just go off on his own and scrutinize some of the artwork. He felt something brush his leg, and then looked down to see a giant wolf head staring up. 

“Look at that. Freki likes ya!” said Odin, as Sam tentatively scratched the monster behind the ears. “Good, now I don't have to worry about you straggling behind. Freki will fetch you back. I'd swear that mutt is part shepherd. All right then, we'll take a detour through the hall. Not a mealtime, fortunately, or we'd waste the whole damn afternoon, toasts and the lot. Come along!” Odin began to march off down the corridor once again, Dean and Cas at his side. Sam followed along, glancing up at the wall from time to time, and now wondering how many storied artworks that had gone into “a private collection” could be found hanging here.

The hall had started to get noisier, and Sam started to see more personnel walking around. Odin took a turn and led them into a light-filled, cavernous room with high, arched ceilings, crammed full of long, wooden banquet tables. There weren't a whole lot of people in here, just about a dozen men and women clustered around one of the tables, eating and laughing and drinking from big metal flagons. To Sam's surprise they were all dressed more or less in modern, or at least Twentieth Century, clothing, even though the walls were bedecked everywhere with medieval swords and materiel. He was also curious to see the guys they were a mix of races and ethnicities: only one guy, a big blond, looked anything like the picture in his head of a Viking warrior.

They loudly greeted Odin, and then, after introductions and a lot of back-slapping a servant brought out a tray filled with more flagons of beer, and they had a quick drink (or two or three) before finally begging off and heading out of the dining hall.

Odin, who now had his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one shoulder, once again led them off through another long corridor. 

“They didn't seem like how I pictured, you know, Vikings,” said Sam, who had loosened up somewhat after several toasts to the health of the king, their guests, immortal Valhalla, and various other things he couldn't not remember.

“Valhalla is and has ever been the place for noble warriors to rest after their time is come. That lot: they're a mixed bag of personnel from the Iraq War – both sides – the Toareg Movement from Mali, and the Libyan Liberation Front. There's always a conflict somewhere. That's something you can count on, knowing human history.”

“But you're new?” Sam pressed.

“A new iteration of me, you could say. But this lady is the original.” He pulled open a large wooden door decorated with many carved symbols, and they entered a most unusual room. It was astonishingly huge, like the dining hall, but as peaceful and still as that room had been bright and boisterous.

It took Sam's eyes a few moments to readjust before he realized there was an absolutely enormous ash tree growing smack dab in the center of the room. A pool of gently flowing water surrounded base of the tree. The room was actually two levels: they had entered on the first floor, and then up above was a mezzanine with an intricately carved wooden balustrade that wove around the tree's broad branches. If you looked up at the vaulted ceiling you could see stained glass windows spread around, dappling red and blue and green and yellow light on the room.

“Is that … Yggdrasil?” Sam guessed.

“Correct! Nice little place I come to collect my thoughts,” said Odin, his voice tracing echoes in the vast room.

“The tree has a name?” asked Dean.

“It's the center of Nine Worlds,” Sam explained.

“Nine worlds and seven hells,” muttered Dean, who didn't have much of a head for numbers.

Odin was yelling up at someone up above. “Hey! Darlin'! Don't come down! We'll come on up!” Sam looked up and noticed for the first time that there was a dark figure standing up on the mezzanine looking down at them.

They crossed to the main staircase and walked towards the woman who had apparently been awaiting them.

“Sorry we took so damned long, got distracted making toasts,” said Odin, kissing her cheek.

“Kali,” said Dean. “Hey, it's great to see you again.”

“Dean,” she said. “Sam.” She gracefully kissed each one on the cheek. “And you must be Castiel?” she asked, extending a fine hand towards the angel.

“Kali.” Cas hesitated. “I am … sorry. About Gabriel?”

“Oh, my dear,” she said, putting a hand on his cheek and giving him a kiss. “You have lost a brother as well.” Cas nodded glumly. 

“Shall we sit?” asked Odin, pointing to a nearby bench. “This is my favorite spot of all. Anybody care for a drink?” Sam glanced over in surprise as a uniformed servant appeared at their side. 

“Man, this is the life,” said Dean, leaning back with a whiskey after some attendants had brought a round of drinks and a tray of hors d'oeuvres. He held up a cucumber sandwich. “Look at this! They even cut off the crusts.”

Odin howled with laughter and slapped his own knee. “I must have you fellows up here more often.” He pulled a cigar from a slim box in his vest pocket and offered them around. Dean eagerly plucked one out, drinking in the smell, though Sam and Kali politely declined. 

“Come on, you gotta try one too, Cas,” Dean urged.

Cas wrinkled his nose. “I don't smoke, Dean.”

“You gotta try this! It’s a Cuban. We taught you to drink, I'm gonna teach you to smoke.”

“Contributing to the delinquency of a celestial being, are you there, Dean?” asked Odin with a wink.

“I am afraid I even have a tattoo now,” Cas sighed. It was a big mistake, because between Odin and Kali, Cas found himself, to his abject embarrassment, disrobing to display his wings. Sam sat back, impressed. The eerie three-dimensional effect was especially effective in the Yggdrasil room's dim light. 

“Well, I was going to display my own tattoo, but I fear you have made it pale in comparison,” Kali confessed.

Cas had shrugged back into his shirt and jacket, although his shirt was unfortunately one button off as well as untucked. “Hey, I wanna see,” Dean teased Kali. He stuck his own cigar in Cas's mouth and began to straighten up the angel's shirt. Cas puffed uncertainly on the cigar. 

“So, I heard you boys paid a visit to Ereshkigal,” said Odin.

“And Nergal,” huffed Sam. 

“I wouldn't pay that one much mind. A minor irritant who believes himself to be a … _player_.”

Sam was going bitchface mode at the memory. Even though Ninazu had cured his sunburn, he swore his back still itched. “Odin, he stranded us in the middle of a fucking desert, 100 miles from nowhere.”

“And you're here now, aren't you, drinking my liquor?”

Sam frowned. Right now he was actually drinking soda water. One of them had to keep a sober head.

Odin flicked some cigar ashes into an ashtray. “I’ll tell you boys our part of this. Since our friend Crowley declared himself King of Hell, he's been honing in on our territories.”

“He seeks some kind of syncretism,” offered Kali. “To create one out of many.”

Odin nodded. “The afterlife has always been and should always remain heterogeneous. That is my stand.”

“Souls are power,” said Dean. “Stands to reason he'd try to score more of them. By any means possible.”

“Now, I understand you folks have a weapon?” Odin asked.

“We have the recipe for demon bombs,” said Sam. “But I think you're interested in Metatron's demon tablet.”

“According to our prophet, uh, Kevin,” said Dean, who pulled a face at the mention of the name, “it has the recipe to lock the Gates of Hell. Forever.”

“I am not certain that would be a good idea,” said Kali.

Dean turned to her. “What?”

“A little point of contention,” said Odin, puffing on his cigar. “Go on, Kali. The boy should hear it.”

Kali nodded and adjusted her skirt. “It is as an ecology, Heaven, Hell, the earth. As there is good, there must be evil too, to oppose it. It is the essence of free will. Ever these elements shall battle.”

“I- I have to agree with her,” said Cas.

“Wait. Really?” said Dean.

“Dean, all of us have made great sacrifices for the sake of our free will. I would hate to do something like this without being aware of the repercussions.”

Dean frowned at Cas, but nodded. “You're with us on this, though?”

Cas shrugged. “I agree we need to get the partial tablet away from Crowley before he can effect a translation. But as for our next step, I'm not so sure.”

“I think we're all agreed on our next move, then?” asked Odin.

“Sure,” said Dean. “Gank that tablet McNugget away from Crowley.”

“And try to round up the other tablets before he can get his hands on them,” said Sam. He looked at Dean, who nodded. “We have a list.”

“So do we,” said Odin with a wink.

“Then, I guess we could compare them,” said Dean.

“I also have the names of some other … interested parties,” said Odin, pulling a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and handing it off to Dean. “You've already met Ereshkigal of course.”

“Yamaraja is my kinsman,” said Kali. “He is an honorable man.”

“Yeah, he's already helped us out,” Dean told her. “Loaned us some demons.”

Kali smiled. It made her lovely face radiant. She rose. “Sadly, it is growing late, and I must take my leave.” After a final round of goodbyes, she simply winked out.

“Ah,” said Odin. “Give me a smart, fierce woman! They're better than us, you know!” He began to walk towards the staircase. “That one was nearly my daughter-in-law. I'll regret losing Baldur ever damn day of my life, but I miss having that one in the family almost as much.” They exited the Yggdrasil room and returned through a doorway to Valhalla's broad corridors.

Sam's urge to ask why Baldur hadn't returned as well was postponed when several of the soldiers they had met in the dining hall all crowded up around Odin.

“We're going out for an evening ride, and wondered if any of you boys would like to join us?” asked one of the Touaregs with a broad grin.

Dean looked at Sam, his eyes bright.

“All right all right all right!” said Sam. 

 

Odin and Cas watched as the soldiers escorted Sam and Dean towards the stables. “Make sure you give them some coats, boys! Remember, they're mortal!” Odin called after them.

“Can I ask you something, Odin?” asked Cas once the others were out of earshot.

Odin nodded. “Let's take a walk.” He led the angel on a pathway that would back to the hall. The river that had had formed a pool around Yggdrasil in the large room wandered out back of Valhalla along a rocky coast. It was lit in the dim winter sun by a series of glowing lanterns placed along the edge.

“This is … very peaceful,” said Cas, surprised at his own comment.

Odin continued walking upwards in companionable silence for a time, and finally paused at an overlook. “Look there.” Cas followed Odin's arm to see a small party of horsemen riding through the snowy fields down below. With angel eyes he could easily pick out Sam and Dean, the latter out leading the charge, Sam in the back of the pack but, perhaps even to his own surprise, smiling. 

Cas's own lips pressed into a smile.

“You have it bad, don't you, son?” asked Odin. Cas sighed. It was fairly clear what the god was talking about.

“It's obvious?”

“He's a mortal.”

Cas frowned. “I am well aware of that.”

“He's aware too, if he's carving his initials in you.” Odin pointed to Cas's back.

“I'm a tree now?”

Odin nodded. “I've fallen for a mortal myself, a time or two, in my younger days. In my former incarnation.” He scratched his chin and studied Cas. “If you feel you need someone to talk to....”

“Bibi made the same offer.”

“Angels and gods: maybe we have a little something in common? Bibi is a good man.”

Cas arched an eyebrow at the god. “Bibi isn't trying to replace my Father.”

Odin didn't reply, but puffed on the remains of his cigar.

“You are, aren't you? Inviting the Winchesters to your afterlife?”

Odin gestured with the cigar. “I prefer to think of it as providing an alternative.”

“You mentioned your new incarnation,” said Cas.

“Yes.”

Castiel turned around to face Odin. 

Odin gazed out at the land of Asgard. “Not only me. Kali's son is back.”

“Yes. I have met him.”

Odin raised an eyebrow. “I have heard he is … different. Well. At least one of us got our boy back.”

“Baldur?” said Cas quietly. 

Odin shook his head. He frowned, and suddenly looked much older. “My son Baldur was a different situation. It's … complicated.”

Cas forced the words out of a dry throat. “And the Trickster?”

“Loki? You want complicated. Yeah, I see what you're getting at, kid....”

Cas's forehead creased. “I presume that ‘kid’ is a term of affection? It seems inappropriate. I am your elder by many millennia, Odin.”

“How long have you been in a human vessel?”

“I am doomed to ever repeat the same conversation with pagan gods?”

Odin grinned. “All right. I'll tell you about the Trickster. Or at least what I knew about Loki, my trickster.”

Cas nodded. 

“We go back a long ways. Not as long as you, obviously….”

“I was quite young when Gabriel left Heaven.”

Odin nodded. “He changed. Over the years. He was always full of mischief, but it was more light-hearted to begin with. But he seemed to grow angrier and angrier, and more malicious, over the years. I barely saw him these past few centuries: he was too busy dealing out revenge for any imagined slight. I thought Kali would calm him down, but that seemed to be the last straw. I told Baldur not to get mixed up in that one, but my boy was stubborn.”

Cas nodded watching the party of horsemen below disappear into a thicket of trees.

“So when you ask about bringing back the Trickster, I guess the first question is, which one do you want?”

“Gabriel,” said Cas firmly. He frowned. He hadn’t known the sentiment until the words were out. “But I realize that is no longer possible. My father evidently regarded us as weaponry. And nothing more. When we die, we go nowhere at all. We are extinguished.”

“Now, with all respect to your Father, that’s not a way to treat a loyal soldier. Not a way at all,” said Odin.

Cas nodded, feeling a chill.

 

“Where were you?”

Cas blinked, disoriented, as he always was the first few moments when he was summoned by Naomi up to the white room.

He felt his new tattoo burning like hell. _Focus._ They had just returned from Valhalla, and Dean had decided they would spend a few nights at Rufus's cabin. 

“Castiel!” said Naomi. “I need your report.”

“You didn't know where I was?” muttered Cas. Was Valhalla beyond their vision? That was interesting.

“What was that? Report.”

Cas felt himself being pulled as he always was. But there was another feeling too now. 

His back was itching like crazy.

The words poured from his lips. “We still have not secured the other half of the demon tablet. The Winchesters are currently researching ways to undercut Crowley and thus force his hand.”

Naomi clasped her hands, and seemed to look around. “Have you heard anything about Crowley potentially holding … a hostage?”

Cas stared at her, wishing he could scratch his back. “A hostage? What kind of hostage?”

Naomi wouldn't look at him. “An angel?”

“How could Crowley manage to hold an angel? That's not possible.”

Naomi opened her mouth, and then closed it again. And then she said, “This meeting is over. As you were. You will remember nothing.”

“How could Crowley-”

“Cas.”

Snow was beginning to fall. They were outside Rufus's cabin in Whitefish, Montana.

Dean looked concerned. “Cas! Buddy, you okay?”

Cas looked at Dean, snowflakes falling clinging to his hair. “No, Dean. No. I'm not okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 8 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you freak over that, you should probably go take a nice warm bubble bath and read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. And thank Zeus for that.

 

“Dean!”

Dean extracted his upper body from the guts of the Impala at the entreaty of the oddly familiar voice. “Namtar,” he said to the dark-haired, dark-eyed teenager who stood before him. “Oh, and, hey, Ninazu!” Dean added, greeting the boy's baby brother, who was clinging tightly to his hand. He looked Namtar up and down. “Uh, is that a school uniform?”

“Yeah, I go to Bronx Science!” said Namtar proudly, as Ninazu beamed up at him. “I don’t show the wings when I’m in public,” he whispered. “Ninazu can’t put them away yet,” he added, causing his small brother to flap his own little dark wings. Even Dean had to admit, it was pretty cute. “Cool car, by the way. That's a classic!”

“Thanks,” said Dean, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He leaned a hip on the Impjala's fender. “So, you guys stop by just to chat?”

“Uh, I need a favor?” said Namtar. Dean smiled. Even though the teen was a god with unearthly powers, his voice still broke in a charming way.

“Yeah, what is it?”

Namtar favored him with a lopsided grin. “So, I was gonna stop by Hell on the way home, and I had planned to snoop around to see what Crowley's up to....”

“How is our favorite King of Hell these days?” asked Dean.

“I gave him shingles!” Namtar said proudly. Ninazu grinned up at his big brother, flapping his little wings. “So, he's not great. Which is cool. But, anyway, Uncle Odin asked me to keep a watch on him....”

Dean frowned. “Anything going on? And you're being careful, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I'm totally being careful. But then Mom asked if I could watch Ninazu for a little while, which is also cool, but I don't wanna take him over there, 'cause, you know, he's a kid....

“I think I know what you want,” smiled Dean.

“Cas,” said Dean a few minutes later as he bustled into Rufus's cabin, where Cas was watching the Discovery Channel on television. “Hey, I just talked to Namtar.”

“Namtar?” asked Cas, not looking up from the program.

“Yeah, Odin has him spying on Crowley.”

Cas scowled at the view from space on the television screen. “What have they found, Dean?”

“Not quite sure. Anyway, Namtar asked us for a favor.”

“What was that?” asked Cas, finally turning his head. He stared in horror as little Ninazu cheerily barreled forth into the cabin, clambered up on the couch next to him and then without so much as a how-do-you-do, squirmed into the angel's lap. 

Cas went stiff.

“Oh, so maybe this won't be so hard after all,” Dean cheerily told Cas. “Namtar just wants us to watch his little brother for the afternoon. He obviously can't really take his little brother along on a spy mission.”

“Watch … him?” asked Cas, who was regarding the small figure in his lap as one might stare at an unexploded IED.

“Yeah. What I figured is, give me ten minutes, I'll put the car back together, and then I'll hop into town and maybe pick up some lunch and a couple things to keep him busy. But since you guys are buddies, maybe you can watch cartoons together for a few minutes? Or Sesame Street or some educational crap?”

“Where is Sesame Street, Dean? I don’t remember that address in Whitefish.” Cas was answered by the bang of the front door slamming shut. He looked down again to a pair of dark eyes staring up at him. Ninazu pointed at the TV screen, a solemn look on his face.

“Yes, that's the television,” Cas told him. He cast his eyes to the side, and picked up the clicker, which was sitting beside him on the couch. “This is the remote control.” 

Gleeful little grabby hands enveloped the remote.

 

“Sammy! Hey, I was hoping to find you here. Well, either here or the golf course.”

Sam had commandeered a table at the local library under a big “I read banned books” banner, and was surrounded by stacks of ancient-looking tomes. “Some of my inter-library loan requests came in from the university,” he explained. 

“I thought we’d grab some lunch and bring it back. I left Cas back at the cabin with Ninazu.”

“With-? Wait. What?”

“Long story. His brother brought him by.”

Sam goggled. “We are now … doing child care services for the lords of hell?”

“Like I said, long story. Anyway, the kid has totally bonded with Cas, so I think they’ll be okay for a while, but, you know, I don’t wanna go back to the cabin and find a smoking crater in the ground.” Dean looked at Sam, his features creasing into a frown. “Cas had one of those … spells, earlier today.”

Sam shut the book he had been reading and folded his hands. Dean didn't need to tell him what he meant. Since Cas had so mysteriously crawled back from Purgatory it seemed at least that he had snapped back to sanity. But he had been plagued by troubles with his angelic powers and, perhaps more worrying, seemed to get occasional petit mal-like seizures, where his eyes would briefly go out of focus, and then he would snap awake, somewhat confused and disoriented. It was subtle, but Dean had picked up on it pretty quickly, and once he had explained it to Sam, it was quite clear to him as well that something was not right. 

Dean had been worried enough to threaten Cas with a doctor, but the angel claimed there was absolutely nothing wrong with his vessel. And so the matter stood.

“Is he all right now?”

“Same as always, he claims nothing's wrong.”

Sam nodded. “Dean, while we're here, can I talk to you about something?”

“Can this wait?” asked Dean, who was growing a trifle impatient.

Sam pressed on. “A couple weeks back, you wanted to gank Bibi. Who I should point out had never done anything to us. And now we’ve got a … baby Babylonian god of some kind, bunking at the cabin?”

Dean looked around. There was a noisy group of children doing crafts at a table in the next room, but no one in earshot of Sam. He sat down and took a breath. “OK. What?”

“Look. Dean. I know you have an investment in this scheme because your angel boyfriend is pushing for it…”

Dean's face flashed through a dizzying array of expressions. “He’s not- Cas is- Well, I mean, he’s sort of-“

Sam leaned over and whispered, “Dean, an angel you just so happen to be sleeping with is planning this whole Rumble in the Seven Hells cage match. So I’m wondering if maybe – _maybe_ – you are lacking in some objectivity here.”

Dean opened one of Sam’s old, dusty books and thumbed through it. He glanced up to catch Sam’s eye. “Look, I know you were … _cautious_ , before we went up to Valhalla. But you gotta admit Odin – this new Odin – seems like a reasonable guy.”

Sam's expression was icy. “He gave you beer and a horsie ride.”

Dean suddenly looked over the hills and far away. “Horses. Yeah, Sammy. I wonder why we hadn't ever thought of riding down demons that way?”

“Uh. Maybe because this isn't the _fourteenth century_? Dean, have you looked at the other gods? The ones on his list?” Sam held up the piece of paper Odin had given them.

“I suppose you’ll give me the rundown?”

“Unpredictable is not the word.”

“Sometimes to take down Hitler, you gotta hold your nose and make a deal with Stalin.”

“This isn’t Hitler versus Stalin! Hades, and Hel, and some Mayan apocalypse dude? This is … Frankenstein versus Godzilla.”

“Well, then, we just make sure we’re on Godzilla’s side. And maybe get some sharks with laser beams.”

Sams eyes grew full of murderous rage. “Dean. Okay, Dean, not funny. I’ve already had my ass dumped in the middle of an endless desert this month. I don’t have much motivation to reenact Orpheus and Eurydice as an encore!” He sighed. 

“Orpheus and … who? Wait, were they those guys in Fleetwood Mac?” asked Dean.

Sam sighed. “I know we have our issues with Crowley-“

“ _Issues_ , Sammy? The guy is 100 percent pure USDA Prime Grade A evil.”

“… but it sounds like these guys have resentments that go back centuries, or millennia! I feel like we’re jumping in the middle of something that doesn’t concern us. I mean, don’t you get the feeling we’re poking a hornet’s nest with a stick?”

Dean leaned back and studied his brother. “Hornet’s nest, huh? You remember Murray Reynolds?”

“No. Should I?”

“Maybe you were too little. One of Dad’s old friends. Dad dumped us with Murray for a while one summer. And, I hated it. Guy lived in a small, crappy house, but if you went outside to play, he had hornets everywhere. I couldn’t go in the yard without getting stung. And the old bastard was too cheap to call an exterminator. Anyway, this went on, and one night, as I was going in my room – it wasn’t really my room, I think it was where he kept his booze and porn or something, but anyway – I go inside and there’s fucking hornets in there!”

Sam's eyes rolled heavenwards. “Is this story actually going somewhere, Dean?” 

“So I finally tell him, Murray, I don’t care, I’m not going in there with the fucking hornets. You get rid of them. Well, he goes out and gets a bottle of some kind of spray poison – like I’m gonna sleep in a room that’s full of bug poison – and I think pulls a nylon stocking over his hat and goes on in. Well, a little while later, he comes running out, and the room is filled – filled, Sammy – completely filled with fucking hornets! He’s cursing, and he’s stung all over. Turns out, they’d made a nest in the wall. They had literally eaten out all the insulation, and part of the fucking wall ended up collapsing! Anyway, Dad had to come pick us up because the dude’s house was a disaster.”

“That’s … quite a memory,” said Sam.

“Sammy. That’s the thing about hornets. Yeah, you poke ‘em, you risk getting stung. But you can’t ignore them either. Because they’re eating away.”

Sam was chewing thoughtfully on his pencil. “So, is Crowley a hornet, or is he Godzilla?” 

Dean sat back in his chair, regarding his brother. “Sam, what did you wanna do with your life? I mean, if you weren’t a hunter?”

“You know damn well. Before the thing with Jess, I was headed to law school.”

Dean's eyes shone. “So? Put that legal brain to use for us! You know these hell guys love contracts. And you’ve studied their histories, so you know what to expect. And go pick Cas’s brain as well. It’s all just a big celestial soap opera to him. If you have reservations about all this, go write some kind of treaty or something, and we won't go forward until we get all of them to sign in blood on the dotted line.”

Sam frowned, remembering Bobby’s deal with Crowley. “I won’t have to tattoo it all on my arm or anything?”

Dean, who was standing up, chuckled. “Hey, I thought you said you wanted a sleeve.”

Sam grunted in return.

“I’m off to get a Happy Meal. You coming?”

“I’ll be there later,” Sam told him. He frowned as he watched his brother depart. Godly babysitting service, he thought, hoping they were getting at least twenty-five cents an hour for this shit.

 

“How you guys doin'?” called Dean, bumping into the door while hefting an armload of packages. He dumped his bags on the kitchen table and then, looking across the living room, did a double-take. Cas and Ninazu were both sitting cross-legged, still as stones, on the floor in front of the television. They appeared to be fast-forwarding through a movie that featured some kind of elaborate production number: there were brightly-clothed dancers arrayed around a large ballroom, twirling though impossible gyrations at sonic speed.

“Hello, Dean,” said Cas. He hit the pause button and stood up. 

“Is that … a Bollywood movie?” asked Dean. He squinted at the channel ID in the corner, which was in a script he didn't recognize: it sure as heck wasn’t English. “I don't remember getting this channel.”

“Ninazu fixed the satellite dish.”

“He … _fixed_ it?” asked Dean.

“I guess his healing powers are more general than we had supposed. The television now gets every channel.”

“Every channel?”

“ _Every_ channel.”

“Well, that's good,” said Dean, hoping the child had also “fixed” the cable bill. “Maybe we can have him fix the wifi. It’s been running a little slow.”

“Is your Busty Asian Beauties site not loading quickly enough?”

“Not in front of the kid,” Dean muttered as Cas smirked a pretty goddam irritating angel smirk.

“We had a question about these films. Perhaps you can answer?” Dean noticed that Ninazu, standing and clutching at Cas's pantleg, was now regarding him solemnly. 

“Probably not but you can ask. You wondered why everyone was dancing and singing like … a bunch of douche bags?”

“No, we found that to be pleasing.” Cas looked down at Ninazu, who grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “We watched one film. A young person had been assigned an unsatisfactory arranged marriage. After many colorful production numbers, this was worked out, and she was allowed to marry a boy she favored.”

Dean nervously scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, okay. I don't know much about arranged marriages. Or much of any marriages....”

“Then we watched the next film, and the romantic couple in question encountered the same difficulty with a faulty arranged marriage. And then another, and another.” Ninazu nodded until Dean feared his head would fall off.

“Uh, kinda repetitive, huh?” smiled Dean. “Boy, that's a lot of movies. I was only gone an hour or two....”

“Yes. We began watching on fast forward when we became aware of the cliched narrative devices.”

Dean began to question their logic, but then stopped. An angel and a god? OK, maybe that’s how they watched television. “Ninazu doesn't like tropes?” Dean looked down and the boy shook his head.

“So our question is, as this is obviously a deeply flawed practice, why is the tradition of arranged marriage simply not dropped?”

Dean scratched his head. He was used to getting kid questions from Sammy, when he was little, but they had never quite been like this. “Well, Ninazu,” he said, hunkering down so he was at eye level with the small god, “human traditions – they're really hard to change. You wanna be like your parents, do what they did, I guess. Like my brother Sammy and I are hunters because that's what our dad did. Okay? Now, you want something to eat?”

There was a very enthusiastic nod yes.

They gathered around the dining room table, which doubled as the kitchen table, the cabin having no dining room. Ninazu couldn't quite see over the table top, so they ended up sitting him up on a couple of couch cushions. Ninazu appeared to enjoy this, as he flapped his little wings in a manner Dean took for enthusiastic.

Cas was rustling around in the fast food bag. “There should be a kid's meal in there,” Dean told him. 

Cas withdrew a colorful little cardboard box. “This is extraordinary,” he said, curiously opening it up. “It's a hamburger! Only … it’s very small.” He and Ninazu gaped in wonder at the marvel that was a miniature hamburger.

“Yeah, see, little fries, and little Coke?” said Dean as Cas dug them out.

Cas set the burger before Ninazu, peeking under the bun. “There is no bacon,” said Cas, a slightly accusatory expression clouding his face.

“Naw. Kids are usually fussy, so they get plain stuff. And you need to cut it up for him.” Dean rummaged around in the bag and pulled out a plastic knife and handed it over. 

“He only eats pieces?” asked Cas. Ninazu, too, blinked in surprise.

Dean smiled indulgently. “Well, you'll see. It's a little less messy if you only give 'em a little piece at a time.” Dean was busy folding out a number of paper napkins around and under Ninazu's place, and then over Ninazu himself. “Wish we could do something to cover those wings,” he muttered.

“How could he possibly get food on his wings?” asked Castiel, who was putting a great deal of care into dividing Ninazu's cheeseburger into four perfect wedges. “They are a great distance form his mouth.”

Dean laughed. “If I remember Sammy at this age, you'll be lucky to get any food at all into the kid. You had a burger before, little guy?” he asked, stepping back to admire his napkin-draping handiwork.

Ninazu shook his head, sending one of the paper napkins fluttering off, and then grabbed a hamburger wedge, which he enthusiastically smooshed into his face, in the general vicinity of his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully on the tiny portion that had landed inside his oral cavity, while the rest settled down his front, in his lap, and on the floor. There actually appeared to be more hamburger residue spread around the cabin than existed on the plate.

Cas watched in silence. He turned to Dean. “That is impressive.”

Dean got a faraway look in his eyes. “Seems like yesterday Sammy was this age,” he said, ruffing Ninazu's hair. “You like burgers, kiddo?” he asked the child, who emitted a satisfied burp. “C'mon Cas. We better eat this stuff before it gets cold.” And so Cas and Dean ate their lunches while Ninazu occupied himself with covering his general vicinity in cheeseburger byproducts. They also dug the little plastic Transformers robot out of the bottom of the bag and Cas and Ninazu alternated watching it roll along the table. 

“Do I need to get you a kids meal next time, Cas?” laughed Dean.

“It is unfortunate that the burger does not come with bacon,” mused Cas, once again sending Bumblebee scooting across the kitchen table. Cas reached over towards Ninazu and withdrew his hand. He looked with great curiosity at a cheese-covered black feather. “Ninazu has gotten food in his wings, Dean.”

Dean smiled triumphantly while Cas cast an accusing glance towards the little god, who simply smiled beatifically. “Well, I think it's bath time for you, kiddo,” laughed Dean, picking up the sticky kid. “Come on, Cas, I think this is gonna take us both. 

In the end, they found that the best solution for cheesy wings was a mild dishwashing soap and a toothbrush.

Since he wasn't around, they used Sam's toothbrush.

And Cas figured out how to angel mojo everyone more or less dry. Cas and Ninazu had their head bowed over a Transformers coloring book Dean had bought when there came a knock a the door. Dean got up to answer it, but Namtar had already appeared inside the cabin. Ninazu squealed and ran towards his big brother.

“Oh my god you guys I am so sorry, that took forever,” the young god apologized. “Hey, how you doing, squirt?” he asked, hefting his brother.

“Hey, no problem, kiddo,” said Dean. “We had fun, right?” Ninazu wriggled out of Namtar's grasp and dropped to the floor and enthusiastically nodded. He ran over the coffee table, where Cas handed over the coloring book, and ran back to his big brother, proudly waving a successfully colored drawing at him. “See? Look?” said Dean proudly. “He colored inside the lines.”

“That's great, big guy,” said Namtar. “Uh, what's this?” he asked of the drawing on the opposite page that looked somewhat like Optimus Prime as painted by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in oil. 

“Oh, that's mine,” Cas somewhat sheepishly admitted.

Namtar shrugged. “It's pretty good. You colored in the lines.”

“Thank you.”

“How's our friend, Crowley?” asked Dean.

Namtar smirked. “In bed with a migraine.”

“Ouch. That doesn't sound fun,” said Dean, wincing in sympathy.

“Two thirds of the eastern seaboard is blacked out. I guess the lights were bothering him.”

They shared a grin. “So, you’re being careful?” asked Dean. “I don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks. You got your brother to think of, right?”

“No, sir,” said Namtar, who suddenly grew more serious. “I’m not taking any risks.”

“Good. Well, we’ll keep the coloring books here in case Ninazu wants to visit again. You take care of your mom now, right?”

“I will!” Namtar promised. Ninazu suddenly bolted to the kitchen table and grabbed the Bumblebee toy, and then ran over to Cas, pressing the little toy into the angel's hands.

“I will take care of this for you,” Cas promised.

Ninazu ran over and grabbed Namtar's hand. And then with a gentle flap of wings the brothers took their leave, Cas fondly waving bye-bye to Ninazu.

“You like kids, Cas?” Dean asked as they settled on the couch for the latest episode of Dr. Sexy MD.

A frown and a head tilt. “As a general principle, Dean?”

“You seemed to get along with Ninazu.”

Cas’s face took on a contemplative look. “After an initial awkwardness, we were able to find common ground.”

They turned their attention to implausibly attractive doctors and nurses for a while. When they switched to a commercial for a male enhancement herbal remedy that had been clinically proven, although to do what it wasn’t clear, Dean asked, “You ever think about kids, Cas?”

“What about children, Dean?”

“I mean, having kids?” Cas looked utterly puzzled, so Dean pressed, “You know, a kid of your own.”

“Dean, as I am currently occupying a male vessel, I would be unable to procreate with you.”

Dean smiled. “Cas, thanks, I know biology. There are other ways to have kids. Ben wasn’t my son by blood. And Bobby wasn’t related to me and Sam, but in some ways he was more a father to us than our own dad.”

Castiel turned back towards the television, his thoughts racing. Like carving his initials into a tree, as Odin had suggested. Yes, this was how humans put a stake into eternity. He chided himself for not thinking along these lines prior to this moment, and struggled to fix in his mind a life that included himself, Dean, and a young human. He frowned. He had seen a few pictures of Dean as a child, and so he pictured a very young Dean occupying the place. A very small Dean, wriggling into his lap, coloring with crayons, turning to proudly show his work to Castiel. A very small Dean wrestling tiny hands around a giant bacon burger. 

“What?” asked Dean.

Cas’s hand involuntarily flew up to his own face. He found to his shock he was wearing a rather large, rather goofy smile.

“I think I like children, as a general principle, Dean.”

 

Sam finally stumbled in well after dark, his backpack and his arms stuffed with books. “I’m so hungry … I could eat a bacon cheeseburger!” he declared.

“Wanna go out? We haven’t had dinner yet,” said Dean, who was lying on the couch, his stockinged feet comfortably propped up in Cas’s lap.

“Lazy!” laughed Sam, who seemed to be in a much improved mood since Dean had encountered him at the library. He set his books down on the kitchen table.

“There was a Dr. Sexy marathon! I have to get Cas caught up.”

“Cas, do you understand anything that’s going on in Dr. Sexy?” Sam asked.

“Dean is helping me,” Cas hedged. “The actors are all very … pleasant to look upon.”

“And before that, we were babysitting a god!” Dean told Sam.

Sam smiled. “And … no explosions.”

“Very few explosions.”

“Let me wash up a little,” said Sam. “I’ve been drowning in dusty books all afternoon.” He ducked into the bathroom. “Oh, hey, Cas!” he yelled out. “I got the books you asked for. They're on the table.”

“Thank you, Sam,” said Cas, pushing Dean's feet out of the way and strolling over to the table. He picked up one titled _The Mask of Sanity_ and began to flip through it.

“Some light reading, Cas?” asked Dean. 

“Research,” the angel told him, as he peered at another book titled, _Without Conscience._

“How about you, Sammy? You making any progress?” Dean yawned and sat up, grabbing his shoes. 

“You’ve gotta see this treaty I’m working on. Crowley would shit his pants.”

“I think he’s already doing that, Sam,” Cas put in. “Namtar gave him a case of irritable bowel syndrome.”

Dean laughed and had to pull out the knot he’d managed to tie in his shoe.

“Hey!” called Sam. He strode out of the bathroom, toothpaste dribbling at the corners of his mouth. “Is there a reason why I got feathers in my toothbrush?”

Dean and Cas exchanged a glance.

“There is no reason at all, Sam,” said Cas, his face the very picture of pure angelic innocence.

Dean was fairly sure he was going to choke with laughter.

 

Sam had carried the hope that Dean would be over his star struck attitude towards Odin and Valhalla, but if anything, it had only worsened. His brother now seemed to regard the Norse god as somewhere up there between Eliot Ness and Dr. Sexy.

“…And this enchanting young lady is Hel.” Odin was making introductions around the conference table. Sam silently gave thanks that it was not a round table: Dean probably would have died of sheer awesome. Instead, the room they occupied could have passed for one in a modern office building. Well, maybe except for the broadswords up mounted on the wall. And the view of Asgard out the window. 

Oh, yeah, and the gods assembled herein.

Hel, for her part, looked anything but young and enchanting. She was spectral, dressed all in black, hooded eyes so deep in the sockets they were invisible. She pretty much gave Sam the creeps, and he had made sure to take a chair on the other side of the room.

As for Yamaraja, the head of Hindu Hell? He was blue. With red eyes. And he had brought along a couple of yappy dogs with him. The dogs had four eyes. Apiece. Oh, and Yama had four arms, though he had somehow retracted two of them before the meeting began.

Speaking of retracting body parts, Namtar was there, evidently standing in for his mother, Ereshkigal, the monarch of Irkalla, the Babylonian Hell. He had somehow gotten rid of his dark wings, which made it a lot easier to sit in his Aeron chair. Sam considered whether gods worked like Mr. Potato head, with maybe a box full of extra arms and wings lying around somewhere? He decided maybe this was not the best line of thought.

Rounding out this weird conference were Hades, who had named his realm after himself, and whose head was sort of enveloped in a blue flame; and Hun Came, a fierce-faced Mayan god of the dead, and, according to Odin’s introduction (which had taken rather a long time) a Lord of Xibalba, which sounded like something from the old Battlestar Galactica, even though it really meant he was a trickster as well as a death god. It wasn't a combination that made Sam cheery. 

Sam stopped and considered this. Everyone here was Lord This and King That: he guessed there were no presidents in hell.

Dean was there as well, of course. He had been spending his time chatting amiably with Namtar. They were acting like old friends. Cas had been having a quiet conversation with Yamaraja, who had one of his weird dogs on his lap and was sitting there petting it. 

There were rolls and coffee set up in the center of the table. And the room smelled a little like brimstone. Dean and Namtar had both helped themselves to bagels, and Dean now had a speck of cream cheese in the corner of his mouth. When Cas turned around to wipe it off for him, Sam took the opportunity to speak to Yamaraja.

“I guess we never got a chance to thank you for the help the other day.”

“For...” began the god, who scratched his weird little dog behind the ears and appeared baffled. “Oh, yes! Pish-posh. I simply let my nephew borrow a few of my pets. I am the one who should be thanking you. Crowley. Bit of a wanker, don't you think?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, maybe more than a bit.” 

“But a powerful son of a bitch,” said Odin, pouring himself a cup of coffee. There were actual coffee mugs, not those cruddy little Styrofoam cups. And the cream cheese had little chives in it. Odin was one classy bastard. Odin stirred a dollop of cream into is cup. It was probably real cream, Sam reflected.

“I was not overly impressed by Mr. Crowley,” said Yamaraja, adjusting his eyeglasses. Leading Sam to wonder why a god would need eyeglasses. He looked more like Gandhi than a regent of Hell. Of course, Cas looked more like an accountant than an angel, so they you go.

“Nor I,” chimed in Hun Came. The Mayan god had grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, and was peeling it with a small silver knife. The peel curled off, all in one lovely, delicate piece, and spooled down onto his china plate. 

A shaky voice piped up. “I agree with Odin. We shouldn’t underestimate Crowley.” Everyone turned to look at Namtar, who suddenly looked as if he deeply regretted speaking.

“You have invited a child to this conclave,” sniffed Hades, turning up the flame. 

“Namtar is sitting in for his mom,” supplied Odin.

“Let the boy speak, Hades,” chided Hel, her voice the whisper of a thousand lost souls. Sam shivered, and found himself wishing, weirdly enough, that he was sitting next to his big brother.

“Yeah, tell us what you've seen, Namtar,” Dean told him. “I know you've been going over there.”

Namtar gulped and straightened his shoulders. “I sometimes poke around while I’m over there. In the Judeo-Christian hell. I don’t take any risks, Dean,” he was quick to assure him. “They can’t sense me if I’m quick enough. Demons aren’t that bright.”

There was a chuckling around the table, although Hades stiffened a little, as if he were slightly offended.

“Anyway, he was holding some kind of captives, so I went to see. He’s got them in a really well guarded room, so it took me a while to figure a way in. He’s keeping…. He’s keeping Leviathan.”

The table went silent. Hun Came flicked the knife, and his perfect apple peel was ruined.

Cas looked ill. Sam saw that Dean had clasped a hand around the angel’s shoulder.

“Leviathan neutralize angels,” said Cas, his voice shaky. 

“Yeah, and they’ve been talking about an angel tablet?” said Namtar. 

“Then they know for certain that one exists?” asked Odin.

“I dunno,” Namtar confessed.

“According to what our prophet can tell, Metatron said there’s a compendium,” said Sam. “Leviathan, demons…. And, yeah, angels.”

“And one for those of our kind?” asked Hun Came. “Pagan gods? For that would be the logical conclusion.”

“This is serious,” said Hades.

“That’s why I thought we should talk about some sort of alliance,” said Odin. “I know we differ on many things. And we all have our own methods,” he added as Hades snorted. “But, you all remember the run up to the apocalypse?” The table fell silent. “We all underestimated the angels, much to our grief.”

“And now we find ourselves at the table with an angel,” grumbled Hades.

“Well, this one is sort of small. And fallen,” mused Hun Came.

“I am _not_ fallen,” rasped Cas, a dark look coming over his eyes. Dean caught his shoulder and flashed a warning look, and Cas’s anger appeared to ramp down somewhat.

Odin gestured for quiet. “To be honest, I think we had all grown more than a little complacent, myself included. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. We don’t have a good idea of what’s been happening in Heaven, but we’ve got a fairly powerful, very crafty demon at loose down here, and I know pretty damned well that Crowley is not inclined to share power.”

“You’re being paranoid, as usual, cousin,” sniffed Hades. 

“It would do you well to listen to his entreaties, Plouton,” said Hel. “Crowley has already made a move against Irkalla.”

The ghostly flames that seemed to dance around Hades’s head fired up. “ _I_ should listen? I wasn’t the one who ended up as a carpet stain under Lucifer’s hoof.”

“There is always a next time, friend,” said Yamaraja, contentedly polishing his glasses.

“You can’t remain isolated forever, friend Hades,” said Hel, as Sam got goosebumps. “The world will not let you.”

“Yes, but maybe we have an ace up our sleeves this time,” Hades sniffed, looking at Odin.

“Hades, ace or not, as a wise man once said, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,” said Odin.

“Oh, Jefferson!” said Yamaraja. “He is one of my favorite humans.”

Odin folded his hands. “I just thought it reasonable that we plan to work together. For the duration. You wanna show them that legal mumbo jumbo you cooked up, Sam?” 

Trying not to blush, Sam grabbed his messenger bag and brought out some papers. “I, uh, have been working on a draft of a treaty. Just so we would have a basic, you know, memo of understanding, if we decide to work on this together.”

Hades snorted and tossed his copy on the table. “Contracts? I never bother.”

“I find it is advisable to have everything written down,” said Yamaraja, eagerly eyeing his own copy and gesturing with at least two arms for a pen, which suddenly appeared out of thin air. He immediately began marking up his copy in a blur of red pens.

“What is this about freedom of movement?” grumbled Hades. “Souls do not leave my realm.”

“Yes, but if any of us visits the underworld, we need a guarantee that was can return again,” Sam explained. “Like diplomatic immunity.”

“You sound like that crackpot, Orpheus,” Hades told him.

“And no foretelling of the apocalypse?” sputtered Hun Came. 

“You must admit, dear friend, that last prophecy didn't work out terribly well for you,” said Yamaraja.

“It is the long awaited end of the fourth world!” Hun Came insisted.

“Wait, four worlds?” asked Dean. “I thought there were nine worlds?”

“A matter of some metaphysical debate,” mused Odin.

“Dude,” Dean told Hun Came. “It must have occurred to you that the world, you know, didn’t end?”

“Our prediction algorithms were bullet-proof!” Hun Came insisted.

“But _it didn’t happen_ ,” said Dean.

“Oh, and I suppose your Judeo-Christian apocalypse is going swimmingly?” Hun Came taunted.

“We kind of threw a monkey wrench into that business,” Dean told him.

“This is what I’m talking about!” Hun Came sighed, throwing up his hands. “Do you have any idea how hard some people must have worked to shrink wrap your end time deliverables? I’m talking death march!”

“Well … yeah,” said Dean.

“Eschatology is a pretty fraught area,” Sam told Hun Came. “If you look at the wording of the treaty, it doesn't proscribe any of your beliefs, it simply says you can't hold them over each other. You're agreeing to disagree.”

“Disagreement? Unfortunately, we require no treaty for that,” said Hel dryly.

“You can all take these back to your lawyers or shaman or advisors and look 'em over,” said Odin.

“I don’t need any advice,” said Hades, who stood, sweeping a hand around the table. “Odin, really. Angels, humans, and a teenager? I cannot take this conclave seriously.”

“Sit down, Plouton,” rasped Hel.

“I’ve always despised that nickname,” grumbled Hades, who nevertheless sat.

“I’ll sign,” volunteered Namtar.

“You’re not old enough to purchase a six-pack of alcoholic beverages,” Hades told him.

Odin suddenly looked up from his copy, a frown crossing his features.

“What’s happening?” asked Cas, who had leapt his feet.

“Cas, don’t get jumpy,” said Dean. But Odin stood up, and Hades had risen again as well.

“Do you smell sulfur?” asked Sam, turning to look out the window as the sky suddenly darkened. An evil black smoke writhed towards them.

“They should not be here,” said Yamaraja. “Odin! What has happened?”

Odin ripped one of the broadswords down from the wall and bolted for the door. “Follow me!” he ordered. Dean grabbed his own sword and was on Odin’s heels. Some of the gods blinked out: Sam wasn’t certain whether they were fighting or fleeing. Pausing to grab a sword and a shield (because, well, why not?) he followed the others outside.

Some of Odin’s men were already out there, as were Cas and Hel. Hel seemed to be able to do Cas’s smiting thing, only she didn’t even need to touch the demon. And Hun Came would throw plagues at people: with a wave of his hand, his opponents would be covered in scorpions, or break out in pustules. Sam made sure to give a Mayan death god a wide berth.

Most everyone else, though, was using weaponry, including his brother, who was pretty damned deadly with a broadsword. (It seemed the weapon was magical as well, as the demons were fizzling and sparking as they fell.)

Sam turned and whacked a black-eyed interloper with his shield (it was a cool shield, it had a picture of a horse on it) and then finished the job with his own one-handed sword. He ducked out of the way just as another demon fell behind him, and turned to see Yamaraja waving a pair of rather awesome jewel-encrusted scimitars. “Thanks!” said Sam. The god nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose. Dude looked like Gandhi, but fought like a whirling dervish. The extra arms came in handy too.

The Valhallan forces fought bravely, but Sam couldn’t remember seeing so many demons since the run up to the apocalypse. “They should not be here!” Yamaraja declared. “This land is protected! There is no conceivable way they could pass the borders of the nine kingdoms!”

“Tell _them_ that!” yelled Sam, whacking another demon. “And where did Odin go?” he asked, looking around for the god.

Sam turned to the roar of thundering hoofbeats: it sounded like the cavalry was on its way. He yelped and jumped aside as he was nearly trampled by…. Was it a giant spider? No, Odin was leading the charge astride the biggest horse Sam had ever seen, a monstrous thing with eight legs. He was followed by mounted soldiers, including soldiers from the group Sam and Dean had met in the dining hall the other day. Suddenly, O Fortuna from the Carmina Burana was playing unbidden in Sam's mind.

The Odin gave a battle cry and began slashing left and right, demons falling beneath the many hooves of his mount. His cavalry spread out and more and more demons fell, and yet more turned in terror and ran screaming, many abandoning their host bodies in the melee.

Dean had been right: horseback was the way to run down demons.

The tide was turned and finally, the hoard of black-eyed invaders began to beat a retreat. Stragglers turned to smoke and whisked away, Odin’s troops in hot pursuit.

Odin had dismounted from his monstrous horse. As attendants began to emerge from Valhalla to tend to the wounded (and stomp out any of Hun Came’s remaining scorpions), Odin was stalking back and forth, steaming mad. “They shouldn’t have breached our defenses! This is outrageous! I haven’t had a demon on my soil for a thousand years! This is inconceivable!”

Sam smiled and looked at Dean, but his brother, for once, didn’t seem to pick up on the reference. “I don’t think that word means what Odin thinks it means,” he said anyway.

“I think that was our message from Crowley that he doesn't appreciate this alliance,” said Yamaraja, wiping demon blood from his swords with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Hades strode over to Sam. “Where is that contract?” 

“I left it on the table inside,” said Sam. 

And suddenly it was in Hades's hand. The god tossed it to the ground and took out his sword, which he drew across his forearm, holding it over the contract so his blood would spill there. A drop hit the paper, blazed, and then there remained a signature-shaped scorch mark.

“Crowley can fuck me,” Hades declared. And then the other gods offered their signatures as well, though none were quite as dramatic. 

Dean wiped some grime off his face with his sleeve. “Sam, are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“The prophet,” said Sam, pulling out his cell phone. “I'll see if they're okay.”

“I don't think that works up here,” laughed Dean.

“I've got five bars, actually,” said Sam, hitting the speed dial.

“There's cell reception in Valhalla?” asked Dean.

“We just put in a tower!” bragged Odin.

“Garth! Yeah, what's happening?” asked Sam. He walked off, exchanging niceties with the other hunter.

Odin had been listening to a report from couple of his troops. “Someone or something destroyed our anti-demon warding in the south,” he told Dean. “A surprise attack.” 

“Leviathan?” asked Cas. He looked deathly pale, as if all the smiting had drained him.

“How the hell would anybody control them though?” asked Dean. “You'd need a boat load of borax.”

Odin shook his head. “I’ve doubled my patrols.”

“Is Valhalla secure?” Hades asked Odin. Dean turned back to look at the great hall, wondering why Hades would think to ask as that question, as Valhalla clearly hadn’t taken any damage.

“That asshole isn’t getting into my hall,” said Odin.

Sam hung up the phone. “All clear at _Casa de Garth_.”

“Weird. We should probably get back anyway,” said Dean. “Cas, you OK to zap us?”

The angel looked haggard, but he nodded. 

“Please let me know if there is anything I can do. We are allies, now,” said Odin, holding up the signed treaty.

“What's the best way for us to reach you?” asked Sam.

Odin reached for Sam's phone. He tapped a thumb on it, and returned it. “I'm on your speed dial now,” he grinned.

“Cool,” said Sam. “You ready Cas?”

“No wait!” Dean demanded, fishing out his own cell phone and handing it over to the god. “Me too!” He flashed the phone at Sam. “I have Odin on my speed dial!”

Sam rolled his eyes.

 

Some time later, the Impala pulled up at the repository, the church that held the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar.

“I don't sense any demonic activity here, Dean,” said Cas wearily from the back seat.

“Ruth isn’t answering her cell phone.”

“You sure we’re up for this, Dean?” said Sam. Cas had been looking pale since fighting the demons up in Valhalla, and zapping them back had seemed to work like a sock to the gut.

“I’d just like to check it out,” said Dean. “Why don't you stay in the car Cas?” Dean was already opening the door. As if in answer, Cas blipped himself out of the back seat to stand front of Dean. “Okay,” said Dean. “Someone could have seen you do that.”

“I'm not being left behind,” Cas grumbled. They locked eyes for a time, and Dean was the one who blinked first. “All right, have it your way.” They rushed up the church steps and, after Dean and Sam had drawn weapons, entered the vestibule.

“That's new,” whispered Sam, indicating the salt line at the door.

“You don't think Ruth actually listened to us?” asked Dean.

“No,” said Sam.

They opened the door into the church proper. It appeared to be deserted. They walked cautiously up to the altar, Sam pointing out the many warding signs that were now drawn on the walls.

“There is something wrong,” said Cas.

“Demons?” asked Dean.

“No. Something else.”

“Well, that's helpful.”

Dean looked around, finally holstering his weapon. “That's the tablet. I guess all is well?”

Suddenly, a teenager jumped out in front of him. "I am Isaiah, Guardian of the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar, three hundred twenty-third of the blood. What is your business here?" The sternness of his mien was somewhat undercut by his voice cracking on the last word.

“Uh, Isiah. Hi, I'm Dean, and this is Sam and Cas.”

The kid glared at them.

“Isaiah. What happened to Ruth?” asked Sam.

“Oh the _acting_ Guardian?” Isaiah rolled his eyes.

“She isn't here any more, Dean,” said Cas.

Isaiah had his hands on his hips. “Yeah, yeah. She was only acting Guardian, so she stepped down when I ascended, the rightful guardian.”

“Where did she go?” asked Dean.

Isaiah shrugged. “I dunno. I think med school. Or … something.”

Sam and Dean spent – or wasted, really – a few more moments making certain everything was copacetic for now, and then Dean stalked off down the aisle, Sam and Cas behind him. “They're gonna make mincemeat of that kid. You know they will,” he told Sam, not taking much care to keep his voice low.

Sam sighed and shook his head. Cas trailed after them, his head down.

“Great, one more thing to worry about,” huffed Dean. He banged through the front door and started down the front steps. “Cas are you-”

“Dean!” Sam had Cas in his arms as the angel collapsed to the ground. There was a clang as his blood-stained angel sword suddenly clattered down the steps.

“Cas! What the hell?” asked Dean, who was instantly down on his knees beside the angel.

“Dean.” Cas seemed barely coherent, his pupils wide as dinner plates. Dean caught his hand as Cas flailed. It was bloody.

“Cas?” There was more blood on the stone steps. Dean gently propped Cas up to look for wounds. On the back of Cas's trench coat, two bloody red patches spread out like wings.

“The angels, Dean. It was the angels,” said Cas, gripping the front of Dean’s shirt. His eyes rolled back in his head. And then he was out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 9 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we careen off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you freak over that, you should probably go take a nice warm bubble bath and read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. And thank Zeus for that.

 

“Where the blazes were you?” demanded Naomi.

The white room. Cas looked around. _Breathe,_ he told himself. _Get your breathing under control_. It all came slamming back, the memories of the white room. _Breathe. Remember._

They had been through this before. “You couldn’t locate me?” asked Cas. He felt it, again: the tug on his grace. 

“That’s not what I asked,” said Naomi, her hands clasped together, her customary unflappable mien shot to hell. She was trying not to tremble.

“You were unable to locate me. And this upset you?” said Cas. _Keep her talking._

“I’m not upset.” But Naomi looked upset.

Cas's back, right about where he had gotten the wing tattoo, had started to prickle. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is there something wrong with your vessel?” he asked Naomi. “Your forehead is covered in perspiration.” Yes, there was something foreign hooked into his grace. He slowed his heartbeat and extended his senses. 

Naomi’s face was impassive, but doubt swirled in her. “I want a report. I don’t think you understand the importance of your mission. We have a missing angel on our hands.”

“Missing? Who? And … how could something like that happen.”

“There has been….” Naomi blanched, as if she was revealing too much. “It doesn’t matter. I need to keep in touch with your current status.”

His back ached, like when the tattoo was new and raw. Words started to spill out. “The Winchesters-” But they were choked off. His eyes blazed. “You don't own me, you know.”

“Castiel. Pay attention.”

He wasn’t coming here willingly. They were pulling him back by his grace. A hook, that’s what it was. A hook, planted inside him. He needed to tell Dean. _Tell Dean._

His back was on fire now. An ache blazed down his shoulder blades, and fired down his spine. His grace tugged him forward, but the tattooed wings tore him back. He was trapped. He was being pulled apart.

“Castiel?”

'You can't hold me. Not against my will.”

Naomi’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

An angel sword flashed.

Naomi leapt towards him.

A flurry of wings.

And then was blood. And blackness. And Dean kneeling over him.

 

“He's resting comfortably,” said Odin.

“You sound like a fucking doctor,” Dean told him.

“Dean,” said Sam, gripping his brother's shoulder. Dean had hit his speed dial button to Valhalla the instant Cas lost consciousness. A small party of Odin's soldiers, still on high alert after the demon invasion, had brought all of them up to Asgard. Cas, though, had not awoken nor said anything since raving about angels on the church steps. And Dean was pretty much beside himself.

Odin laughed. “I'm just relaying what my own healers and shamen are telling me. Now, I know you're nervous, but as far as any of my people can tell, he's not in any immediate danger.”

“So that was … someone else's blood on his coat?” asked Sam.

Odin frowned and leaned against the corridor. “No. It was his. And damned if anyone can tell me why a tattoo mark would suddenly start to hemorrhage.” 

Dean threw up his hands. “How the hell did he get injured standing on the church steps in broad daylight?”

“You know it's a supernatural injury of some kind,” said Odin. “Something to do with his magic. My healers, unfortunately, aren't experts in angel comings and goings. I thought to call in another party. If that's square with you?”

“You got an angel doctor? Sure,” said Dean.

“Something like that,” said Odin. He inclined his head down the hallway. “Would you like to check in on him?” Dean nodded and Odin led him to a door guarded by two rather intimidating Valkyries. Sam noticed with some alarm that his brother paid the warrior women almost no mind, and didn't even attempt to flirt. Dean must be terribly upset. The sentries stood aside, and they entered a bright sunny room, where Cas seemed to doze peacefully in a large bed. Dean was instantly sitting in the chair at the side of the bed, tentatively putting a hand on Cas's forehead. “You're okay, buddy. I'm here.” He frowned. They had cleaned off the blood, and Cas looked white as a sheet. Dean noticed with some agitation that Cas was now dressed in a while hospital gown.

“You kept his clothes, right?” asked Dean. Odin smiled and pointed to where they had been neatly folded on a shelf. “I'll bring up some of his pajamas,” said Dean. “So he doesn't have to wear those.”

Odin looked puzzled, but said, “All right, if that's what you want, I'm sure it will be fine.”

Sam motioned to Odin, and the two walked towards the opposite end of the room. “We've got another issue. Ruth isn't guarding her tablet any more. They've got some … teenager in charge.”

“Yes,” said Odin. “There have been some changes. But I sincerely believe all will be well, Sam.”

Dean looked up from Cas's bedside. “Wait, you knew about this, Odin?” 

Odin nodded. “Yes. Personnel have been shuffled around. And Ruth and Bibi … they’re keeping the news to themselves for now.”

“What news?” asked Sam.

Odin didn't answer immediately. He glared at the floor for long moment, and then finall looked up to meet Sam's eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. I can tell you, you boys have stumbled into a very big, very dangerous situation.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of our specialty,” sighed Dean, holding one of Cas’s limp hands in his.

“Can we at least talk to Ruth?” asked Sam.

Dean nodded. “That’s right. Bibi is buddies with Cas. I think he’d like to know he’s hurt.”

Odin stared at the brothers for a long time. “I am hesitating because I'm not sure I should get you boys mixed up in this.”

“Odin, I think we’re already up to our asses!” said Dean. “And Cas is … you said you don’t even know what’s wrong with him.”

“Can I ask you something, Dean?” said Odin softly. “Now, the tattoo artist you went to….”

“She was just a human, if that’s what you’re implying,” spat Dean. “Not a demon, or a witch, or anything like that. I would have spotted it. Cas would have spotted it.”

Odin nodded. “Of course. But you were the one who asked him to do it?”

Dean was silent.

“Dean?” prompted Sam. “You made him do this?”

Dean glared at Sam. “So what? It’s not as if he did it against his will.”

“No one is accusing you of anything, lad,” said Odin. “We won’t know the full story until he wakes up.”

“ _If_ he wakes up,” Dean moped.

“What are you getting at, Odin?” asked Sam.

Odin scratched under his chin. He was staring at Dean. “Sometimes, in my experience, actions have … unintended consequences.”

“You think the tattoo ended up as something more?”

Odin turned to Sam. He was smiling. “I think your brother doesn’t know his own strength. I'll have some of my men escort you to meet with Ruth, if that's what you'd like.”

“Dean?” asked Sam.

“I'm not doing much good here,” said Dean. 

 

The man wearing the suit knelt down on the church steps. He trailed a finger through the bloodstain drying in the sun. He contemplated the red on the tips of his fingers, his face an emotionless mask.

“His blood?” asked his companion, who was also wearing a suit.

The first man regarded his fingers. “Yes. Definitely Castiel's vessel.”

“And then the trail goes dead?”

“Yes.”

The second man spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “They say- They say he got away.”

“Impossible. No one gets away.”

The second man glared up into the sun. “Naomi's not gonna like this.”

The first man stood up. “It's not Naomi I'm worried about.”

They exchanged a glance, their faces unreadable.

And then they were there no more.

 

Dean looked around nervously. London. Ruth and Bibi were in London. 

“Hey, I recognize this place. I've seen pictures. I think this is the theater district,” said Sam, looking around.

“Yeah, a _dark alley_ in the theater district,” said Dean, who did not like to be zapped around, even if it was Cas doing the zapping. But he especially hated being zapped around if it was not his favorite angel behind the wheel, so to speak. Their escorts, who were needed back at Valhalla, had split almost immediately. “What the hell. And why was Odin being so damn squirrely about this?”

“I thought he was your favorite new buddy?” asked Sam. Dean glowered at him. “Hey, he could have made us fly here on a plane.”

Sam spotted a young couple walking by: a tall, dark-skinned man, and an elegantly dressed redhead. The woman looked their way, and suddenly broke into a run, waving her hand rather inelegantly. “Hey! Sam and Dean! Over here!”

“Ruth?” asked Dean, as she went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Uh, you look … good.”

Ruth pecked Sam on the cheek and then looked down at her shoes. She was wearing high-heeled pumps. Ruth giggled, holding up a foot. “Oh, yeah. I had to learn to walk again. But they're cute, right?”

“They're quite lovely, dear,” said Bibi, who extended a hand to shake Sam and Dean's. “It's good to meet you blokes again. May I assume this isn't what you might call a chance encounter?”

“No, it isn't,” said Dean. “We got trouble, and we wanted to tell you in person. Cas has been injured, so Odin-”

“Oh, not the angel!” said Ruth, one hand over her mouth.

“Cas? I hadn't heard,” Bibi put in. He looked between Sam and Dean. “Is it serious?”

“It might be. We're not really sure.”

Bibi gripped Ruth’s hand, looking grave. “We’ve got healers in my pantheon. If there’s anything I can do....”

“Thanks. We left him up with Odin in Valhalla for now.”

“Odin will look after him,” Bibi assured them. “He's a good man.”

“The point is,” said Sam, “You must have heard about the attack at Valhalla?”

Bibi shook his head. “Yama Uncle told me about it. Crowley's gotten bolder. Wanker.”

“We're worried Crowley is gonna make a move on the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar,” said Sam.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, we went to the church and ran into … Isaiah?”

“That little punk,” grumbled Ruth.

“Now, don't be ungracious, love,” Bibi chided. “The man has a different … style.” He rolled his eyes, obviously not entirely pleased by it all.

Ruth stomped a high-heeled foot, sending a lock of red hair cascading out of its barrette. “He's an arrogant little prick. He's gonna end up like the rest of my male relatives: on a slab.”

Bibi turned to Sam and Dean. “We're worried too, mates. Since we heard about the attack by demons up at Valhalla, I've been trying – we've been trying – to keep an eye on the tablet, though the current Guardian ain’t much on cooperation, if you get my drift. It's still part of my duty within my family to secure its safety.”

“So, we don't need to worry?” asked Sam, who sounded unconvinced.

“We got it, don't worry,” said Ruth. “Hey! But since you're here, maybe you could come to the theater with us!”

Sam looked at Dean. “Uh, we don't wanna intrude....” 

“Nonsense! You guys look like you could use a laugh, and I've heard it's hilarious!”

“We don't have tickets,” said Dean.

Ruth pulled two tickets out of her purse. “Wanna see a trick?” She flicked them, and suddenly they were four tickets.

“How did you do that?” said Dean.

Sam looked around in alarm. “Hey. Do you smell sulfur?” Indeed the dark alleyway where they had met to talk was suddenly crowded with black-eyed interlopers. They did not look friendly.

“More Crowley creepy crawlies. Great. This is just great,” grumbled Dean, who didn't appear to think it was great at all.

“Oh, crap,” said Ruth. “I have orchestra seats to see _Book of Mormon_ , you douche bags!” she shouted, waving the tickets.

“We’ll take care of them, love,” Bibi assured her.

“Hey. Winchester. Where's your little angel boyfriend?” taunted one of the demons.

“Off sharpening his sword on your buddy's skull,” said Dean.

“Really? I heard he _fainted_.” His demon buddies laughed.

Bibi whipped out a bejeweled saber and separated the demon's head from his body. “Wanker,” he muttered.

The demon's stopped laughing then. And they were off.

One demon made the mistake of grabbing Ruth from behind. She came down hard on the guy's instep with one high heel, sending him screaming in pain, and then she tossed another spike-heeled shoe at another demon. Her aim was deadly: it got him in the eye, and he went down shrieking.

But there were a lot of demons, and only four of them. Dean beheaded a guy with his Purgatory axe, but soon found himself flung against the alley wall when two guys rushed him. He landed with a clatter on some trash bins, his axe having flown from his hand. A demon found it, and held it poised over Dean’s neck.

But then Ruth was in the center of the pack, shouting, “Hey, wanna see a trick?”

A demon snorted.

And then there was another Ruth, twin swords out, standing next to Dean’s would-be assassin. And another Ruth hovered by where Sam fought two demons. And yet another Ruth, between Bibi and a demon. All in all, there were a dozen Ruth's, surrounding the pack of demons who were left. All of the Ruth's stood poised with her two swords, murder in all of her eyes.

“Which one is real?” one demon asked another.

“That's simple, boys,” chuckled Bibi. “All of them.”

And that was the end of the demons. Sam and Dean stared in disbelief at the carnage. Sam had witnessed Ruth going after demons in the church that one time, but that had been … only one of her. 

“What the fuck?” breathed Sam as another demon head popped off and went rolling. 

One Ruth in the middle, the one who had yelled, appeared to shudder, and then she was back to a single individual.

Sam bent down to help Dean to his feet. “Ew! I got demon eye goo on my heel!” Ruth whined. Bibi handed her a handkerchief.

“Uh, Bibi,” said Dean. “Dude. Your girlfriend?”

“Fiancee,” Bibi told him helpfully. Dean stared. “Ah, yeah, that,” said Bibi, as Ruth came to stand next to him. “Since giving up her role as Guardian, Ruth has gotten a sort of a … promotion.”

“But you gotta come to see the show with us now,” Ruth insisted, pushing a lock of hair back into her clip. “And then we could talk over dinner!”

 

The northern sun streamed through the window, casting a warm yellow sunlight across the room. But Castiel remained abed, unaware of this.

A dark-haired woman sat at his bedside, staring down at him.

“Is he still sleeping?” asked Odin from the doorway.

“Angels don't sleep,” the woman told him.

“His friends were worried-”

“Seraphim are tough little motherfuckers. He'll be all right.”

“You think it's magic, then?” asked Odin, slipping into the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed.

“His grace has been wounded.” She traced a line down Castiel's chest with two fingers. 

“You can't use your magic?”

“Angel blade wound. It's beyond my powers.” She looked up, finally seeming to catch the worried tone of Odin's voice. She spoke more softly this time. “Time will heal him. His friends don't need to worry.”

Odin gazed out the window. “Whatever did this to him-”

“Powerful. Very powerful.”

“Your warding – you think that will hold?”

“My warding will hold. For now. But angels are stubborn sonofabitches. I should know.”

And they stood in silence for a time.

 

 _“There isn’t enough food to eat, hasa diga eebowai,”_ sang Ruth, scooping up paneer with her naan bread.

After having dragged the brothers along to the London production of _The Book of Mormon_ , Ruth decided that they needed to go out for a curry.

In Jaipur. Which happens to be in Rajasthan, India.

“London is just too bloody expensive,” Bibi had huffed before whisking them all off here. Sam wasn’t entirely certain what he had expected, but probably nothing like this. It looked like Venice, or at least the pictures he’d seen of Venice: a gorgeous city built along canals. 

Sam was fine with it. He figured it was less likely that any demons who were after them could track them down on the other side of the world, and Bibi seemed to know everybody in the city. That was how they'd scored this table at the outdoor restaurant right beside a peaceful waterway, looking across a still lake towards a lovely palace built out on an island.

Besides, Sam had felt slightly underdressed all evening, there in his front row seats at the Wales theater. But here at dinner, Bibi had shrugged out of his jacket to drape over Ruth's shoulders, and loosened his tie, and Ruth had finally given up on her elaborate hairstyle and kicked off the high-heeled shoes. Bibi affectionately brushed a lock of her red-blue hair away from the pakoras. And you could see the moonlight on the water and everything smelled like exotic spices. Sam sat and toyed with his basmati rice and wondered why he’d spent the past few years of his life racing between Omaha and Kansas City when this place existed in the world. Had anyone in this entire city known the apocalypse was looming just a few short years ago?

“This is pretty,” said Sam, feeling awfully inadequate.

“This is where I proposed,” Bibi told them.

“Though I proposed first,” said Ruth. 

“That didn't really count.”

“You proposed, Ruth?” asked Sam.

Bibi laughed. “First time we met, I smote a half dozen demons and she said, 'Marry me.'”

“That's romantic,” said Dean, who was toying at a dish that definitely wasn't a hamburger, though it was awfully tasty.

 _“People are starving on the street, hasa diga eebowai,”_ Ruth sang.

“What did you boys think of the show?” Bibi asked.

“I hadn’t been to a real Broadway musical before,” Dean admitted. “Well, I guess it wasn’t Broadway. But that was fucking hilarious.” He looked down at something unidentifiable but delicious on his metal plate. “A fuck you God song? I wish Cas could have seen it….” He frowned and nudged his plate away, suddenly not so hungry.

“Awww, I’m sure he’ll be OK,” said Ruth, pushing a tureen of steaming tikka masala towards Dean. Unbidden, she started to ladle more food onto Dean’s plate.

“Angels are pretty tough customers, it’s true,” said Bibi. “You want to tell me more, Dean? About his injury? You said Odin thought it was magical?”

“His new tattoo was bleeding,” said Dean. “And I guess I sort of browbeat him into getting it done. I didn’t realize it would have an effect … like that.”

“And the tattoo artist? I take it she wasn’t dodgy in any way?”

“We’ve already been through this,” Dean snapped, suddenly realizing what it was like for all those people he and Sam had interviewed over the years. 

“Sorry, mate. Only trying to help.”

“I know. No, there was nothing skeezy about her. She was really talented.”

“Skeezy,” Bibi repeated, obviously relishing the word. 

“And you wanted him to get it **because** …?” asked Ruth, who was now piling Dean’s plate with cheese-stuffed potatoes.

Dean flushed. “It’s just…. It’s silly.” But now Bibi, Ruth and Sam were staring at him. Dean put a hand over his chest. “A few years ago, he marked me up, well, he marked both of us up, me and Sam, so the angels couldn’t see us any more. So I have Enochian scrawled all over my ribs.”

“Oh, warding symbols! Nicely done!” smiled Bibi.

Ruth paused in filling up Dean's plate. “Ooo, Bibi! Do you think the tattoo worked the same way!”

“Anti-angelic warding?” said Bibi.

“He was raving about angels,” muttered Dean. “Just before he….” Dean swallowed hard.

“I’ve never heard of a human who could manage such a thing though,” said Bibi, who was studying Dean.

“It has the hallmarks of reciprocal warding magic,” said Ruth.

“Dean’s not a shaman, dear,” Bibi pointed out.

“But they’re _in love!_ ” gushed Ruth, grabbing Dean’s arm as Dean apparently attempted to slide underneath the table and perhaps melt into the patio.

Sam, albeit reluctantly, decided to go to bat for his flushing brother. “So you think the wing tattoo – it was somehow _protective_?”

Bibi nodded. “That’s a working theory. Like I said, we’ll need to wait ‘til he wakes up. And if it was protecting him from something worse, you need to have a think about that.”

“Don’t worry, Dean. We'll bring Castiel the show soundtrack!” Ruth promised. “Hey. You know, the missionaries reminded me of the angels,” said Ruth. “With the badly-fitting suits and no sense of humor?”

“Now, you know that’s stereotyping,” chided Bibi.

“The missionaries, or the angels?” laughed Sam.

“I tend not to laugh at folks who could smite me,” said Bibi, taking a cigarette case from his vest pocket.

“You know I’m smite-proof,” laughed Ruth.

“Yeah, but, Ruth, in all seriousness, what’s up with the power up?” asked Sam.

“So, Odin didn’t tell you?” asked Bibi, exhaling a fragrant smoke. He and Ruth exchanged a glance. Both Sam and Dean shook their heads.

Ruth pushed her chair back and stirred her tea. “Soooo, the monks showed up a couple weeks ago. With Isaiah. I knew sooner or later I’d be knocked out of a job, but I didn’t expect it quite so soon. He’s still a little on the young side.”

“Dude’s barely out of diapers,” grumbled Dean.

“We think the powers that be weren’t too happy about our Ruthie confronting Crowley like that,” Bibi put in.

“We got you fired?” asked Sam.

Ruth nodded.

“Well, it isn’t the worst we’ve done,” sighed Dean.

“It’s OK, I’m cool with it,” said Ruth. “But I was out of a job, and you know, we’re getting married soon.”

“Wouldn’t have looked good. My family is a bit … traditional,” said Bibi.

“But has it happened,” said Ruth. “Bibi's Auntie Kali told us that Odin had a job opening….”

 

Dean stood in the middle of the hallway in Valhalla, arms crossed, glaring at Odin. “Ruth is Loki? She’s the new _Trickster_?”

Odin nodded. “Well, yes, is the short answer.”

“I think we’re looking for a _long_ answer, Odin,” said Sam.

The god sighed. “I thought it was best you boys see for yourselves. Bibi went a little out of his head and proposed marriage, and his family is very traditional. It was a complicated situation, but to make a long story short, he's hard-headed, and his folks don't go in for these mixed marriages. Given the dangerous times, I didn’t want to see a rift develop over this. As it happened there was an opening in my pantheon, and as she had been relieved of her duties as Guardian of the Tablets....”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “So you knew?” asked Dean.

Odin scratched the back of his neck. “To be honest, I may have had a part in it.” 

Dean glowered. “What the hell, Odin? We trusted you.”

“Yes.” Odin looked back and forth between them, as if he was still deciding on something. “And now I am going to entrust you with something. This is a very dangerous secret, but seeing as we are now working on the same side, and I feel confident you boys can handle yourselves in a fight, I think I ought to share it with you. Come.” Odin began to lead them down yet another of Valhalla's endless corridors. Sam looked out the windows and watched as a small party of horsemen rode up outside. 

The corridor took a turn and another turn, and Sam started to get the feeling of running in circles, although they didn’t seem to be retracing their steps. Finally they were near a darkened doorway with many sigils painted around it. Odin took out a key and, reciting some words that sounded more Latin than Norwegian, opened the lock and bade them to enter, carefully shutting and locking the door behind them.

The lights snapped on. Dead center of the room there was an object propped up a dark wooden plinth.

“Holy shit,” said Dean, drawing nearer. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Wait. _You've_ got a tablet too?” asked Sam.

Odin nodded gravely. “Yes. It's not technically mine of course, though it is currently under my protection.”

“Like I told you, Sammy, you pick 'em up at 7-11.” Dean heaved a sigh. “So, are you telling us because you need this translated?”

“Actually, no, that work has already been done. An … old friend.”

Dean frowned at Odin. “OK. From what Cas tells us, there's only one prophet at a time. So who do you know who speaks tablet?”

“Well, look at this! So many attractive men in one little room. Odin, are you holding out on me?”

Dean turned with a start. He hadn't heard the door open, but there was definitely a new person in the room. She emerged from the shadows of the doorway. She was wearing a riding outfit – jodhpurs and high boots – and her dark hair was a mussed and her cheeks flushed, as if she had just come in from an outing. Dean’s first thought, seeing the black hair and striking blue eyes, was of Liz Taylor in that horse movie – _National Velvet_? 

And his second thought: a realization really. Despite the casual manner, there was something piercing about her glance, and something about her presence that made the small hairs on his arms stand up. “You're not human,” Dean told her.

“Oh, sharp _and_ handsome. Nice!” She grinned and, stripping off a riding glove, extended her hand.

“This is Sam and this is Dean,” said Odin. “The Winchesters.”

“Pleased to finally meet you boys,” she smiled, shaking Dean's hand, and then Sam's. She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve gathered quite a reputation.” Her gaze was intense. And she didn't seem to blink.

“Uh, I didn't catch your name?” said Sam. She was standing uncomfortably close, staring up at him.

She threw a questioning look at Odin, who nodded. She inclined her head at him and stepped back. And suddenly the room darkened, thunder crashed somewhere outside, and a great pair of shadowy wings stretched out on the wall directly in back of her. Dean gulped. He'd seen Cas do this before, but it always gave him shivers. But this was like Cas, only tenfold. The presence was almost too much for the tiny room.

“I’m Metatron, Voice of the Lord God,” she said very matter-of-factly. And then she shrugged, and the room was back to normal. “Or at least I was. I’m recently retired,” she told them.

“Let's go somewhere we can talk,” grinned Odin. 

“And maybe get a drink?” asked the Voice of the Lord God. “I’m fucking parched.”

 

“You know what I like?” said Crowley.

The demon minions arrayed around the conference table in the darkened room held their collective breath. All eyes involuntarily drifted towards the messy pile of what looked like SpaghettiOs: all that remained of a former colleague.

“I'll tell you what I don't like. I don’t like looking at Powerpoints,” said Crowley. “I have the man who invented this crock of viper entrails confined in one of the lowest circles. And you know how he’s being punished?” There were shaking heads. “He has to watch a Powerpoint presentation! Over and over and over. Until the end of time!”

The minions nodded, as everybody strove to keep their eyes fixed on the table, the floor, the SpaghettiOs, anything but making contact with the currently incensed demon king.

“I don’t like Powerpoints. You know what I _do_ like?”

Many heads shaking.

“Smiting things!”

The heads stopped shaking and began quavering.

“What I wanna know is,” Crowley continued, leaping up to smack the hated Powerpoint diagram with an angel sword, “why is this graph going downwards? We want the number of damned souls in hell going up, up and up!” He emphasized each “up” with a smack of the sword, leaving several stabs in the projection screen.

“We think it was a one-time occurrence, sir?” ventured a very brave or very stupid minion.

“And why is that?” yelled Crowley, getting right into the unfortunate idiot’s face.

“Well, we think it was due to the threatened Mayan apocalypse. A surfeit of souls, especially from the Americas, ended up in Xibalba.”

“Americans are too stupid to _spell_ Xibalba! How could they let their immortal souls end up in the Mayan afterlife?”

“You know. Publicity,” ventured another demon.

“Publicity?” snapped Crowley, his tongue luxuriating in the word.

“Can’t buy it,” replied the demon.

“Why are we not meeting our monthly quota of souls?” said Crowley again. “And why did we get our asses handed to us by Odin? He's a pagan god, people. He's still thinks catapults are nifty!”

“It's Odin, sir, but a brand new incarnation,” ventured a minion.

“Yeah, this guy has an Olympic gold medal!” echoed another.

“An Olympic gold medal. Well why didn't he stay on the damned Wheaties box where he belongs?” Despite his current temper tantrum, Crowley had to admit, he felt better than he had in weeks. His head was clear, and he didn't itch. Much. Smiting minions and oatmeal baths seemed to agree with him. Despite stupid Norse deities who didn't know when to retire to death metal album liner notes.

“I don't think any of you possesses the faintest understanding of the gravity of our situation. This is not a time to be left short of souls. The Winchesters, stupid and pointless wastes of Salvation Army surplus that they are, have allied themselves with a bunch of potty pagan pretenders and that ratty half-mad seraph. And they are holding the tablet! My tablet!”

“We’ve tried to eliminate them, Sire. But the Guardian. There’s something … wrong with her.”

Crowley shot his shirt collar. “Well of course there is. And she wears reprehensible footwear. Do none of my enemies maintain even the most minimal level of aesthetic taste?”

Crowley’s associates exchanged worried glances. Would there now be smitings for dress code violations, they wondered?

A demon minion had just entered the room. He looked absolutely terrified. “Your Majesty,” he quavered.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, what is it now? Come on. Spit it out.

“Your Highness. We’ve been robbed.”

And then the minion trembled no more.

As he was now a pile of ashes on the floor.

Crowley fumed. “Well, don’t just sit there! Somebody bring me another minion to tell us what this first idiot was trying to tell me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things: my current estimate on completion of this thing is 90,000 words/17 chapters.
> 
> At various points, Vibhishana refers to Kali and Yamaraja as his aunt and uncle. Just to be clear, these folks are not related by blood, but it's a custom in India to refer to older people as "uncle" and "aunt," so that's a tradition I often have my Hindu pantheon characters follow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 10 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never look back. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta. If that’s going to raise your blood pressure, then do yourself a favor and read something else.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. And thank Zeus for that.

 

“So you say you're retired?” asked Sam. They had migrated to a comfortable sitting room, where they were all sipping a rich, amber whiskey, and Odin, Dean and Metatron were enjoying Cuban cigars.

“Yeah, I walked out,” said Metatron. She had changed from her riding outfit to a sweater and blue jeans. Since she had actually excused herself to do so, Dean figured she didn’t use angel mojo. He was still thinking he'd seen her in an old movie.

“What happened?” Sam urged.

Metatron puffed thoughtfully on her cigar. “For all the millennia, I was a faithful soldier in service of the Lord. I fought valiantly in His name. And then one day, Michael called me in and told me they had a new job for me: the old man's secretary, basically. From warrior of God to taking dictation! My sweet aunt.” She tapped out some ashes, her eyes blazing with the memory.

“Michael can be kind of a douche,” said Dean.

“You said it, buddy,” said Metatron.

“And I take it you didn't like the new job?” asked Sam, pulling a face and irritably batting away the smoke from his brother's cigar.

Metatron sat back in her chair. “Well, if you don't know Him, the old man can be moody as hell, and He just got worse after Lucifer left. You know, I told Him He was spoiling the feathers off that little brat. But He tends to get sentimental. And anyway, the writing down all his pontification wasn't the worst part, as it turns out.”

Sam looked at Dean, who was evidently too busy wallowing in his cigar to return the gesture. “What was the worst part?”

Metatron pointed two fingers to her own head. “As soon as I got done with one of these things, he'd blank out my memory, so I couldn't recall what I'd just written. _'Very secret Metatron, can't let the Word get out prematurely.'_ That was over my limit. I mean, yeah, maybe you're the Lord God of all creation, but don't be a dick!” She pounded a fist on the armrest, her eyes blazing. “So when we were all done, I grabbed myself a tablet and took off. Sent myself off on a little tour of the cosmos. 

“But after a while I started getting homesick. I thought about where I might be welcome here on earth, and decided Valhalla would be a good place for an ex-soldier like me. Especially given what I was carrying.”

Odin flicked his cigar ashes into an ashtray. “In case you boys haven't guessed, she was carrying the tablet that carries the Word of God regarding the pagan gods.”

“That one was all very hush-hush. He didn’t want anybody to know He even acknowledged them,” Metatron told them. 

“Who else besides us knows about this, Odin?” asked Dean.

“Besides you boys, very few. Hel of course: she knows all our secrets. I've told Hades. He can be a prick, but he’s a strong ally. And Kali and some of her folks, so Yamaraja knows. I gave them back her son, Ganesha, the Lord of Hosts. That's how Bibi knew to come looking for me when he had the … issue with Ruth.”

“If Metatron can read the tablets…” Sam began. 

“Crowley wouldn’t stop ‘til he’d found you,” Dean concluded.

“Crowley? That little tin pot dictator?” snorted Metatron. “Hmpf.”

Odin sat forward, looking concerned. “We’ve got bigger worries, boys. Much bigger. And that’s why you need to swear to secrecy about all this.”

“Bigger worries than Crowley?” asked Sam. He gave Dean a, _“What did we just sign ourselves up for?”_ look. But then he jumped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He listened for a moment and then held up a hand. “Excuse me,” he muttered, rising and wandering to the doorway as he said, “Yes, Mrs. Tran, I understand.”

“Talk about big worries,” said Dean. “Kevin's mom.”

“Kevin is your prophet?” asked Odin. Dean nodded. “Is he … in a secure location?”

Dean sighed. “As secure as we can get him. Garth has changed their safe house location several times. But I always feel like we're half a step behind Crowley and his goons.”

“I'd offer to take him up here,” said Odin, “but that's a worrying amount of eggs to have gathered in one basket. Especially after what happened the other day.”

“Oh!” said Metatron. “I wish I could volunteer to watch over him. I haven't pulled prophet duty in a dog's age.”

“You need to remain undercover for now, young lady,” scolded Odin. 

Metatron waved her cigar at him. “Hey! I could play it low key.”

“An archangel on the loose is bound to draw attention.”

“Gabriel was good at hiding out,” said Dean.

“Gabriel! He was always such a cut-up,” said Metatron, giving a fond smile. “I miss that little runt.”

“We gotta get back,” said Sam, stepping back into the room and flipping his phone closed. 

“What's up?” asked Dean. “Is Kevin okay?”

“No. But it’s not what you think,” he added, as Dean nervously stood up. “Another Tablet of the Lord has just popped up on the radar. And the Prophet Kevin is evidently climbing the walls.”

“We gotta get down there,” Dean agreed, immediately standing up. He looked at his half-finished cigar with regret.

“There's more smokes up here for you boys, Dean,” laughed Odin. “I’m sorry I can’t spare any personnel right now to look after young Kevin. But you go retrieve your testy prophet. I'll try and figure out something to help.”

 

“So, how do you know for sure there's another tablet?” asked Sam amiably. It was sort of a weird conversation, as one of the participants was currently tied down to a chair with electrical tape.

“My boy knows these things! He's a prophet of the Lord! And Advanced Placement,” Mrs. Tran maintained. She was not the bound person in question, although Dean had definitely considered it. 

“How do I know there's half a fucking demon tablet out there?” spat Kevin. “I can’t block this stuff out!”

“Language,” chided Mrs. Tran.

“I can't fucking sleep at night over the stupid piece of rock your batshit pet angel broke in two! Believe me, I know when a new tablet is out there. And if you don't let me get it, so help me I'm gonna bust free and fucking kill myself.”

“We tried everything to calm that boy down,” said Garth, who looked like he hadn't slept in a good long while. “It's like an itch he can't scratch.”

“It's worse!” howled Kevin.

“You try getting him drunk?” asked Dean, to a death glare from Mrs. Tran. 

“My boy doesn't imbibe,” she said primly.

“You know, I usually don't agree with my brother's hare brained schemes, but it might be worth it in this case.” As Sam watched, Kevin writhed in the chair, making it hop around the room. “Look,” said Sam, sliding a foot on to one of the chair legs to impede Kevin’s progress, “can you at least tell us where it's located?”

Kevin breathed in and out. “Idaho. Eastern Idaho. An archeological site. Along the Snake River.”

“We'll go take a look,” said Dean.

“What about me?” Kevin wailed.

“How's my favorite prophet?” asked Ruth who, along with Bibi, had just appeared inside the living room of Garth's safe house. “Odin sent us. We've decided Kevin is gonna spend the afternoon working on his med school applications.”

Kevin howled. “How can I apply to med school? Look at me. _Look at me!_ ”

“You could probably do surgery with your teeth,” said Ruth, tilting her head at him. “Anyway, you said if I completed mine, you'd do yours.”

“Wait, you're still intending on going to medical school, Ruth?” asked Sam.

“Bibi's family would never forgive me if I didn’t!” said Ruth, and Bibi put an affectionate hand on her shoulder. 

“That's our Ruthie. Yeah, I promised my father I would marry a professional,” Bibi explained. “And I'll transport us all over to the site of the new tablet, if that's square with you blokes? I’m not an angel, but I reckon I do alright in a pinch.”

Dean looked dubious, as always, about a potential zap. “We should get there quickly,” Sam reasoned. He too looked dubious, though for different reasons.

 

"I am Isaiah, Guardian of the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar, three hundred twenty-third of the blood. State your business." The teen looked back and forth between the two men in ill-fitting suits standing near the altar. They had been hanging around the church for the last day or so. Ever since those arrogant Winchester pricks had departed. They had probably run off tattling everything to Ruth. Well, let them. She wasn’t Guardian any more, _he_ was.

“We are trying to locate an escaped an-“ the one guy began, but the second guy caught his arm.

“Locating a fugitive. We’re, uh, _FBI_ ,” explained the second guy.

Isaiah nodded. That explained the cheap suits and grim attitude. “Who are you looking for? You mean the Winchesters?” Isaiah hoped it was them. They would look good behind prison bars.

“A man who was with them,” said the second agent. “He was about my height. Dressed in an overcoat?”

“Oh, their demon buddy?” sniffed Isaiah.

“Demon?”

“Well, whatever he was,” Isaiah told them. “I guess he couldn’t be a demon, since he got past my warding magic.”

The agents exchanged a glance. “He’s an angel,” said the first, though his buddy tried to shush him.

Isaiah nodded knowingly. “He may have been an angel. Some scrawny little guy.”

“He is wanted. For _crimes_!” the first guy told him.

“Yeah, well, they all took off. I don’t know what happened to them after he fainted.”

“He … fainted?”

“Didn’t you see? Must have hit his head, because he bled all over the front steps.” Isaiah frowned. “Uh, not that I cared. Good riddance.”

“Did you happen to see what happened? After he, uh, fainted?” asked the second guy.

“Yeah, it was weird. They must have been going to a con.”

The men in suits exchanged another confused glance. “Come again?”

“You know, a convention?” He got baffled looks. These FBI guys, they really needed to get out more often! “Some kind of gaming con, or what have you. Anyway, these two cosplay chicks-“

“Cosplay?”

“Two chicks dressed up like Vikings came and met them. You know? Those fake geek girls who ruin cons.”

There was another silence. “Uh, Vikings did you say?”

“They were supposed to look like Vikings. Viking warrior girls. As if! Stupid, huh?”

“Valkyries?” asked the first guy.

It was Isaiah’s turn to cast a skeptical glance. “What are Valkyries?”

“Basically, Viking warrior girls.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess so.”

The agents looked at each other again. “I think that’s all we need. Uh. The FBI thanks you for your cooperation.”

And then there was a soft sound, like wings beating. And the agents were no longer there.

Isaiah looked around in puzzlement. “Strange dudes, FBI agents,” he muttered.

 

Dean was glaring around. “If this is an archaeological dig, where's Sam Neill? Aren't there supposed to be a bunch of nerd dudes hanging around with little toothbrushes?” 

They were standing at the bottom of an ancient volcanic crater, squinting into a cave that had been carved out of one of the sheer walls. Bibi had managed to zap them to the lip of the crater, but they had had to find a way to descend to the bottom, in the dark. Fortunately, because of the archaeological work, the trail going down was well-marked, but it was a little difficult to manage in the low light. 

Sam peered into the darkened cavern. “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“We'll have to take care, you understand,” said Bibi. “I ain't an angel. Literally. If we get too deep, my transport powers don't work too well through solid rock.”

Bibi had pulled his saber out. Dean saw it flashing in the moonlight.

“Mine's cooler,” grinned Dean, holding up his axe.

“I saw your demon-cutter, Dean. Where did you nick such a flash blade?”

“Purgatory.”

“Ah!” Bibi held up his sword. “This little number was forged in the Lake of Fire.”

“Yeah, and we'll see it again on the Fourth of July,” snarked Sam, rolling his eyes. “Look, could we maybe quit comparing weaponry size and focus here?” To put it mildly, he was not cheerful about how Dean had been cozying up with all these pagan gods recently. Seriously, they were pagan gods. What was his brother thinking?

Dean and Bibi exchanged weaponry-related grins, and then the small party moved carefully into the cavern. They had brought along flashlights, but didn’t need to use them at this point, as the way was lit by halogen lights up on the wall. Water trickled in a thin stream down the floor.

“Wait, what's that up ahead?” asked Dean. They moved quickly to where the tunnel opened up into a large chamber.

Sam was the first to reach the still figures lying on the ground. There were about half a dozen of them. He checked for a pulse at one guy’s neck, and then shook his head.

“I think they're all gone, mate,” said Bibi. 

“I don't see any marks on any of them,” said Dean. He sniffed the air. “And I don't smell sulfur.”

“This is a volcanic crater, right?” said Sam. “Sometimes they burp out poison gas clouds. Carbon dioxide is odorless. It could be natural causes.”

Dean and Bibi both made skeptical faces. “This volcano's been dormant at least as long as I've been around though,” said Bibi. “Which is an awfully long time.”

“Let's go see what they uncovered before we get gassed,” said Dean. They picked around the bodies of the archaeologists and came to an area of the floor that had been marked off with a border of yellow tape.

“Look at that crack!” said Sam, pointing to a deep fissure that ran though the chamber.

“Yeah, it's like they had an earthquake here or something.” Dean clicked on his flashlight and shown the light down the crack. “Hey, look there.” 

Water had pooled into the fissure, but visible just under its surface was what looked like the face of a tablet, still stuck on surface of the rock.

“That explains why they didn't just grab it and run,” said Sam. “It looks like it’s stuck in there pretty good.”

“Archaeologists never do anything fast,” said Dean. “Bibi, can you mojo it out of there?”

“I think so, but I'll need to climb down closer to make certain I don't break the bugger.” All three of them looked around. There was no sound but the steady trickle of water. 

“You okay climbing down?” asked Dean.

Bibi huffed, as if insulted. “I was bred in the Himalayas. I think I can manage an eight foot crack, thank you very much.” Bibi began to shinny down into the fissure, skillfully finding invisible hand holds as he descended. He paused just above the tablet. Bracing himself with his legs and one hand, he carefully set another hand on the stone. He closed his eyes. The tablet began to glow.

“He's not gonna break it is he?” whispered Sam.

“Then Kevin can occupy himself super gluing it back together,” Dean told him. “Wait, you smell that?”

There was a cracking sound from within the fissure and a cry of “Got it!” just as the first column of black smoke whooshed by overhead. 

“Bibi, get your godly ass up here,” shouted Dean. “Crowley’s buddies are here.” Dean swung at the first demon as soon as it materialized, but then there were more.

“Head's up!” came Bibi's voice, and suddenly, the tablet shot out from the crack liked a bagel popping up from a toaster. Sam broke into a run to get underneath it, and caught it in an impressive dive.

“Ow,” said Sam. Catching a stone tablet, as it turned out, was not at all like catching a softball.

Dean was dispatching demons, but found himself double-teamed. Bibi hurled himself out of the fissure and speared one of them with his saber. It crumpled in a shower of sparks.

“Let's get outta here!” yelled Dean, and the three of them broke for the entrance, Sam and the tablet in the lead, demons hot on their tail. 

“Daylight!” said Sam as he spotted the entrance.

“Wait!” shouted Bibi, grabbing the back of Sam's shirt. 

“What?” Sam, still clutching the tablet to his chest and feeling more than a little foolish, skidded to a halt.

“There's something out there. Stay low.”

“Worse than demons?” asked Dean.

“Yeah.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a skeptical look, and then the three of them, crouching down and staying close to the wall.

They edged out of the cave entrance, at the wall of the large volcanic crater. Dean pointed upwards to the three figures standing up the rim of the crater. They all ducked behind a small outcropping of rocks just as the first demons emerged from the cave's mouth, roaring out in pillars of dark smoke.

The demons screamed as they were smitten by the angels, who had flown down from the rim. “You think if we stay out of the way, they'll just gank each other,” whispered Dean.

“You know it's never that easy,” sighed Sam. 

There was a whistling noise. Dean felt a shiver up his spine. “I know that sound!” he said. “We gotta get outta here. Bibi, can you zap us?”

“Can we get up to the rim?” asked Bibi.

“You need to get up there to zap?” asked Dean.

“If I'm carrying along two six-foot wankers and a bloody great stone tablet, yes!”

Sam watched as what looked like two meteorites crash landed in the middle of the crater. “Uh, is that what I think it is?”

“Leviathan,” said Dean. “Let's make for the rim.” Bibi grabbed the tablet from Sam and they took off running as two blobs of tar suddenly congealed into angry Leviathan warriors.

Somewhere in back of them, an angel screamed.

“Here it is,” said Dean, locating the trail to the surface. He began to scramble up the wall of the crater, his brother and Bibi close behind. 

“Whoever wins this throwdown is gonna be after us soon,” said Sam.

“Soon or now!” shouted Bibi, and Sam found the tablet tossed to him once again as Bibi turned around to strike at a pursuing demon. Sam barely managed to catch the heavy tablet one-handed.

“Will you guys quit playing keep away with the damn tablet?” shouted Dean, pulling his brother onto a ledge. 

“Thanks,” said Sam, hefting the tablet. And then he shouted, “Wait! Behind you!” 

Dean whirled around as quickly as he could on the narrow ledge, and came face to face with a hooded figure. “Shit!” he said. But he only got his axe up halfway before the figure raised two fingers. And then there was a rustle. 

And everything changed.

 

“Why’s it so dark in here?” Kevin demanded.

“This is the Dark House,” Ruth answered, lighting up a lantern. “Look, it was either this or the razor house. And, you know, you’re already down to nine digits.”

Kevin scowled at his hand, and then peered down at the medical school applications spread on the table. “Seriously, Ruth. I appreciate this, but I’m gonna go blind. It’s like an expensive restaurant that doesn’t want you to see the prices on the menu.”

“You wanna take it outside?” she asked. 

“Unless you’ve got these applications in Braille, yeah.”

Ruth stood in silence for a moment. “You promise you’re not gonna try and run away on me again? Your mom would _murder_ me!”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone so scared of my mom! You’re a god or something now, right?”

“Yeah. But your mom is badass.” Kevin could make out a grin even through the dimness.

“Okay, look, I promise I won’t try to run. To be honest, I don’t feel antsy about the tablets since we’re down here. I feels … kinda relaxing.”

Ruth shrugged. “I don’t suppose you could make it over the river of scorpions anyway, so let’s give it a try.”

“Thanks,” Kevin muttered. He gathered up the applications and his computer, and, sticking very close to Ruth in the penetrating darkness, they made their way out of the building. Ruth somehow found the door, and it opened to an utterly gorgeous garden. The breeze carried vague smells of exotic fruits. There were tall tropical trees and lush ferns growing in abundance, and he thought he heard monkeys chattering somewhere. There were several overgrown pyramids visible here and there in the distance. Although, other than a brief trip to Niagara Falls, Kevin had never been outside of the United States, he thought this looked like a mysterious ancient Central American village.

Well, except for the large, “WELCOME MAYAN APOCALYPSE 2012” banners that seemed to be draped everywhere.

“Man, this is the place!” he sighed, sitting down on a bench. A peacock wandered by. “Am I weird that I like hell better than my home?”

Ruth laughed, sitting down next to him. “You like Xibalba?”

“Other than the fact that I can’t pronounce it. Like I said, I literally haven’t been able to put the fucking tablets out of my mind for over a year now. But here? It’s like somebody flicked a switch. I can concentrate again.”

“Hey, Hun Came!” hailed Ruth as they were approached by a fierce-faced individual. “Our host,” she whispered to Kevin.

“My greetings,” Hun Came told them, as Kevin tried to figure out whether the intricate patterning on the guy’s face was a tattoo or actually natural. 

“Uh, hi,” said Kevin, who wasn’t certain exactly how to greet a Lord of Xibalba as, up until today, he hadn’t ever even heard of a Lord of Xibalba.

“Greetings,” Hun Came told them. “Would you care for an empanada?” he asked, as a servant held forth a tray. Kevin followed Ruth’s lead and took one, but squinted at the pastry before he bit into it. Written out in food coloring was “MAYAN APOCALYPSE 2012.” He stole a glance at Ruth, who was happily taking a bite.

“Oh, _empanadas de leche_!” she said approvingly. “Delicious. You should try, Kevin.”

Kevin took a careful bite. It was really good: it had a sweet, creamy filling. 

“May I?” asked Ruth, who was reaching for another.

“We will leave a plate,” said Hun Came proudly. His servant put several of the pastries on a dish and set it between Ruth and Kevin. “We are going to observe some damned souls at the Rattling House. Would you care to come with?”

“It’s a little cold for me in there,” Ruth apologized. “Besides, we need to make some progress on Kevin’s applications.”

“It is our great honor to host the Prophet of the Lord.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” said Kevin, who was not used to people being so welcoming without strings attached.

“You know, if the translation work is wearing on you, Prophet, you would be welcome to engage in your holy task within our realm.”

“Huh,” said Kevin. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be so bad: sitting out in a nice sunny garden eating pastries, instead of locked up in a dark, probably smelly house with Garth and his mom.

“I think we’re good, Hun Came,” Ruth put in. “But thanks.” That got a glare from Kevin, although he kept his mouth shut.

The death god nodded. “All right, well, if there’s anything else we could offer?”

“Maybe some tea?” asked Ruth. Hun Came nodded to the servant, who hurried off. “Please let me know if you require anything else. Anything at all!” And then with a bow, Hun Came was off.

Kevin scowled at Ruth. “What’s up with the tea, Beer Belly?”

Ruth grinned. “I’m almost a married woman. Gotta behave myself. Besides, not a great idea to tie one on down here. I don’t completely trust that dude, if you get my drift.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with the Mayan Apocalypse stuff?” asked Kevin, holding up an inscribed empanada. “I mean, it didn’t happen, right?”

Ruth looked around. “Shhhh! Do _not_ let them catch you saying that.”

“Sore point?”

“Very sore point.”

Kevin smiled and chomped on another empanada. This one was savory, filled with meat, and would have actually gone well with a beer. Fortunately, the servant arrived just at that moment with a large pitcher of iced tea, which really was really sweet and delicious. Once the servant had hurried off, Kevin asked, “So, why did you veto it when he asked me to come down here to do translation?”

“Think, Kevin. What’s the one thing you need to do your work?”

“Well … the tablet I guess.”

“Uh-huh.”

They exchanged a glance. “So he wasn’t just being nice?”

“People are never _just nice_. Well, maybe Jesus. And Lord Ganesha. But really, you can’t trust people, and gods and angels and other supernatural whatnots even less.”

“Sam and Dean are nice,” Kevin blurted. Ruth was staring, so he continued, “Well, that angel dude is off his rocker.”

“I _like_ Castiel.”

“You would. But they came in to protect me when they’re not getting anything out of it.”

Ruth wiped pastry from the corner of her mouth and crossed her arms. “I thought you told me they totally ditched you and you were ready to strangle them? And Sam’s a whiny-ass bitch and Dean is a budding sociopath?”

Kevin blanched. “Did I say that?”

Ruth arched an eyebrow.

Kevin heaved a sigh. “Well, like I said, it feels good to be down here. Like a weight off my shoulders, you know?”

Ruth nodded. “We’ll see what we can do. Meanwhile, you finish some personal essays, and maybe we’ll go see the howler monkeys. Sound good?”

“Howler monkeys? Monkeys are cool.”

“Monkeys are very cool.”

Kevin smiled and picked up his laptop.

 

Dean was standing in the middle of a field, along with Sam, the tablet, and the hooded man. 

“Where's Bibi?” he asked, whirling around. “What did you do with Vibhishana?”

“Is that demon … with you?”

“He's our friend. Yeah.”

The hooded man snapped his fingers, and Bibi appeared. “Fucking bloody hell.” He rounded on the hooded figure. “An angel?” he asked, his voice suddenly shooting up a full octave.

The man pulled down his hood. “Yes, I'm an angel.”

“Inias!” said Dean. 

“Friend of yours?” asked Bibi.

Dean nodded. “Well, more of an acquaintance. Vibhishana, this is Inias.”

“Dude,” Sam told Inias. “We all assumed you were dead.”

“I've been looking for you,” said Inias. “I uncovered the tablet a few days ago, hoping you'd come after it. I didn't expect-” His breath caught, and he looked downwards. “Those poor archaeologists. I didn't think they'd … kill them all.” He slumped, and Dean grabbed his arm.

“Hey, Inias. Can you take us to somewhere we could all sit down and talk? And, uh, maybe get a beer?”

And so that is how the Winchesters, the demon Vibhishana and the angel, Inias, ended up sitting in a booth in the back of Toby's Tavern in Trout Creek, Montana.

“They got Patsy Cline on the jukebox here,” Dean laughed as he sat down with the others. “Walking After Midnight” echoed through the nearly empty bar. Bibi stared in wonder at the animated Hamm's beer sign hanging above their table. 

“Hey, that's some nice doorstop,” said the barmaid, nodding at the tablet set out on the table as she snapped her gum. “You guys here on a hunting trip...?”

“Uh. Interested in the local archaeology,” said Sam, draping a hand over the tablet.

“Might I try the Moose Drool, love?” asked Bibi.

“You ain't from around here, are ya?” she asked him.

“No, actually, I hail from India.”

“Oh!” Her eyes grew big. “So, you work in one of those techie help lines? I've been having trouble with the laptop....”

“Actually, no,” smiled Bibi. “Sorry, love. Sadly, I work in the family business.”

“You have the computer here?” asked Sam. “I could take a look at it.” He nodded to Dean, and then followed the girl over to the bar, where she brought out an old IBM laptop.

Dean looked around. The only other person in the place besides them and the barmaid was a rather well past drunken man sitting on a barstool who would occasionally blurt out, “George Jones! He was one singing son of a gun!” And then he would stumble over to feed more coins into the jukebox.

Dean leaned across the table. “Inias. What's going on? Talk to us.”

“After the time I met you and Castiel, I returned to heaven, where I learned our brothers had been slain by Leviathan. Many angels were slaughtered that year. We went to seek out Castiel again, but could no longer find him.”

“That’s because he was in Purgatory. With me,” said Dean.

“I know that now.”

“May I ask why you decided to seek out Cas?” asked Bibi, who was toying with the salt and pepper shakers. He had somehow turned down the darkness that often enfolded him, and looked almost like a human guy. 

Inias looked uncomfortable. Dean had noticed that he had squirmed into the side of the booth away from Bibi. “Are you … a friend to Castiel?”

Bibi smiled warmly. “Yeah. I have that honor.” He narrowed his eyes. “What about you?”

Dean felt a twinge of jealousy. Cas gets other friends, he told himself. And then he thought of Cas looking pale and drawn on the big bed up in Valhalla.

Inias was speaking again. “I think so. Yes, I hope so. Quite frankly, we didn't know what to do. We were being slaughtered. And Castiel.... I know he made mistakes. But he's different. He could see … a way out. Can you tell me where he is?” he asked Dean.

Dean folded his hands. He looked up as the barmaid hurried over and distributed their beers. She scurried back to the bar to lean over Sam's shoulder where he was frowning at the laptop. Dean noticed with some amusement that she was leaning in a little too close.

Dean decided to hedge. “I can't disclose where Cas is at right now. I think maybe you can understand that? But I can tell you I can get a message to him.”

Inias looked pained. “We thought the worst was over when the Leviathan leader died. But the horror had just begun. In heaven. There was.... There have been purges. By the upper management. Those who were suspected of following Castiel, anyone who was suspected of thinking for themselves? 'Abusing' their free will? They've been taken. Tortured. Some did not return. Those who did … were not the same.”

“Upper management?” asked Dean. “Who the hell is Heaven’s upper management these days? They got some brand new douche nozzles?”

“That's the worst thing, Dean. No one knows.”

Dean and Bibi exchanged a look. “I'm sorry,” said Bibi. “No one knows? What about your one God then?”

Inias sadly shook his head. “No. No one has seen our Father. For a long time. As far as upper management.... Michael, Raphael, they're gone. Some new people have been … promoted. But they don't appear to be the ones really in charge. I don't know who they answer to. No one can say. No one will say.”

“And you?”

“I, and some of my brothers and sisters, fled, for lack of a better word. We have been in hiding here on earth. We know everyone is very interested in the tablets. That's why we decided to risk exposing this one.”

“I take it this isn't the angel tablet?” said Dean.

“You know about that?” Inias thumped the tablet with his index finger. “Yes, this one speaks of protection against restless spirits.”

All three looked up the bar, where the familiar Windows tone sounded. The barmaid jumped up and down and gave a surprised Sam a kiss on the cheek.

Dean felt his phone vibrate and picked it up as Sam sauntered back over. “The beers are on the house, by the way,” he grinned as he slid into the booth, looking very smug. 

Bibi grinned. “I'm a Mac person, me.”

Sam laughed. 

Dean scanned his new text message and flipped his phone shut. “We gotta go. Get back.” 

Sam saw the look on his brother's face and stood as well. “OK,” he said.

Dean stared at the angel. “Inias. How can we get in touch with you? Some of the stuff you told me, we need to discuss it with Cas.”

Inias actually smiled. “I'm an angel. Just pray to me, Dean. And I'll hear.”

Dean nodded, and then turned and hurried out of the bar, Sam and Bibi following him.

“What's up?” asked Sam as the screen door slapped closed behind him.

“Call from Valhalla. Cas. Bibi?”

“Just as well, it’s time I go pick up Ruthie and Kevin in Xibalba,” said Bibi.

And then they were no longer in Montana.

Back inside the tavern Inias walked over to the bar. He put two fingers on the barmaid’s forehead, and she crumpled to the ground.

“George Jones! One singing son of a gun!” muttered the drunk.

“You can stop that now,” said Inias, giving the drunk the hairy eyeball.

The drunk suddenly straightened up, his eyes sharpening. “Why didn’t you let me possess the girl? That would have been more fun.”

“For one thing, you would have ended up in Dean Winchester’s lap,” sighed Inias, who was hunkered down checking the girl’s pulse to make certain she was unharmed.

“What’s wrong with that?” the drunk giggled.

Inias stood. “And for another, that one already has significant alcohol-induced brain damage. You’re not hurting him.”

“Tree-hugger,” grumbled the drunk. Suddenly, his body language was completely different. “So is Cas all right?”

“You are still sweet on him, aren’t you?”

The old drunk wriggled in an oddly seductive manner. “Says his number one fan. Maybe he’ll send you an autographed picture for your trouble.”

“And the answer is, I don’t know. He’s out of Purgatory.”

The drunk wrinkled his nose. “And probably still making googly eyes at Dean Winchester. Not that I blame him. He is one fine looking boy. He makes my panties warm. Even in this vessel.”

Inias shook his head in frustration. “Too much information, Meg.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 11 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we skip merrily off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you relish searching desperately for typos over all else, this might be the fic for you.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with a weird alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows (I mean, seriously, isn't there always).  
 **Notes:** This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. Because I said so.

 

“Angels?” said Dean disbelievingly. “ _Angels_ got your ass out of Purgatory?”

Cas slid over to give Dean room to sit down on the bed next to him. Odin and Sam crowded around nearby.

Cas nodded to Dean. He still looked pale and unwell, although he swore he felt fine. “They had.... They had a kind of … leash on me. It’s difficult to explain.” He put his hand up to his neck, as if it were a real leash. “In my grace. That's why.... That's why I've been having problems.”

“So, you basically took your sword and sliced off the leash?” Dean guessed, mining the gesture of a slashing sword with great gusto.

Cas shuddered. “Yes. I cut into … my grace.”

“That would explain why his magic looked damaged,” said Odin.

Dean looked imploringly at Odin. “How can we … put a Band Aid on his grace though?”

“Me, I have no damned idea, but we got someone who might know better.” He nodded towards the woman who had just appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, Cas, this is-” Dean began.

“Metatron,” whispered Cas, his eyes going wide. Dean scrambled towards the edge of the bed.

“Don't get up on my account,” she told Dean, sauntering over to where Cas was sitting on the bed, propped up by an endless pile of pillows. She took his chin in her hands and gave him a full-force Cas-style stare down. Cas blinked, but didn’t protest. After an uncomfortably long time, she released his face and nodded with satisfaction. “Good. You're definitely healing up.”

“Metatron. What can we do for him?” asked Dean.

“Nothing. I can’t heal angel sword wounds. No angel can. Fortunately, time will take care of it,” she told Dean confidently. “His vessel might need to eat and sleep for a while. Don’t worry, soldier,” she said, patting Cas on the shoulder, “we'll get you back on your feet soon. Back in the ranks!”

“I’m not certain I want to be back in the ranks,” Cas confessed, hugging his knees. Dean’s Metallica T-shirt hung all the way over one shoulder, making him look small and thin against the pillows.

“Uh, Metatron, this is probably a really rude question, but are you guys related?” asked Sam, pointing between her and Cas. It was clear when they were side by side that both shared the same dark hair and bright blue eyes.

“All angels of the Lord are my brothers and sisters,” said Metatron. She raised an eyebrow. “Much as I hate to admit it, in certain cases. But you're referring our human vessels, aren't you? I would have to look up the bloodlines, but it's possible. There are not a lot of humans who can contain a lower ranked angel, much less a being like me. She might have been a great aunt or a second cousin twice removed. This particular gal was a minor Hollywood starlet,” she said, hooking a thumb towards her vessel.

“I thought I'd seen you in the movies!” said Dean.

Metatron rolled her eyes. “Doubtful. Unless you spotted her standing behind a potted plant. Anyway, I believe she was originally from the American Midwest. Overdose,” Metatron concluded sadly. “She had engaged in sexual relations with a producer hoping to finally score that big role. But then it went to someone named Joan Blondell instead. She should have smitten the un-righteous bastard, but being a human woman, took her own life instead.”

“Wait. So she was already dead when you occupied her?” asked Sam.

“Dying. And her last thoughts weren't for friends or family, it was a wish that she would never age. So....” Metatron spread her hands. “Archangel over crow's feet, I guess. It's a little tight-fitting.”

“It's a damned fine vessel if you ask me,” snorted Odin.

“Please. You don't know what you're dealing with.”

“Maybe I'd like to try.”

Metatron raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“OK, you two, get a room,” said Dean. Odin roared with laughter and Metatron looked slightly bemused. 

“Now,” Metatron told Cas. “Castiel. If you're feeling up to it, need a full report. What the angels said. Everything they did.”

“You can pull it out of me, Metatron,” said Cas, pointing to his own head.

“I don’t go in for tricks when I can help it,” she said, shaking her head and beginning to pace the room. “Also, I want _them_ to hear it as well. In your own words. And take your time.” Odin leaned back against the wall, and Sam settled his lanky frame into an easy chair, but Metatron kept to her feet, pacing the room, back straight, arms wrapped behind her. Dean draped a protective arm over Cas’s shoulders and watched her. He knew angels were supposed to be soldiers, but with a lot of them he got more the impression of conniving bureaucrats or sleazy used car salesmen. Metatron, though, really came off like a general. He thought of how she might have interacted with some of the angels he had known, and cracked a small smile.

“What?” asked Cas.

“Oh, uh. I was just thinking. Would have been … interesting to see you around Zachariah, Metatron.”

“Zachariah is a complete asshole,” said Metatron, not slowing her pace.

“ _Was_ a complete asshole,” Dean corrected.

“We lose him in the apocalypse too?” she asked.

“Kind of. I killed him. Stabbed him in the face.” Dean made a very satisfying stabbity motion.

“No fucking shit?” asked Metatron. Cas nodded solemnly, and Odin once again roared with laughter. “I like you, Dean Winchester. Castiel. Go ahead.”

“I was drawn into several encounters with an angel who called herself Naomi. Uh, I didn’t know her.”

“Naomi?” Metatron shook her head. “No idea. But I didn’t know all of the lower ranks. Continue.”

“So she wasn’t a big wheel?” asked Dean.

Metatron shook her head. “Not while I was around heaven, but it’s been a while. Continue.”

“I noticed that she would become … agitated after our visits to Valhalla. Evidently, they could no longer perceive me when I was up here.”

“That makes sense,” said Odin. “Metatron has this place locked up tight.”

“Angels wouldn't be able to see you – or me – when you're up here,” Metatron told them. 

“Asgard is angel-proof?” asked Dean.

“As far as I can make it so, yes,” said Metatron. “No unwanted feathery pests get past my warding sigils. But go ahead, Castiel. Did you encounter any other personnel besides Naomi?”

“She was the only one I ever saw. But the room had a one-way mirror. I could sense … a presence. On the other side. But it was vague.”

“Cas,” Dean asked. “Was it like the green room? The place Zach took me?”

Cas looked lost in thought for a moment. “No, nothing at all like that.”

“The … green room?” asked Metatron.

“Back when Michael was trying to convince me to serve as his vessel….”

“He was going to take a living being as a vessel?” Metatron marched over to the side of the bed to stand near – perhaps a bit too near – Dean. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to you afterwards? Your mind would be turned to oatmeal! Oatmeal! In the best case scenario!”

Dean, who was accustomed to penetrating angel stares, merely stared back. “Well, he tried. I said no. But anyway, he brought me to this crazy room that looked like an Italian whorehouse.”

Sam smirked. “I didn’t find it that unappealing, Dean,” Cas protested.

Metatron nodded. “Ah, that figures. He took you inside his mind. Zachariah never had any taste.”

“What was your room like, Castiel?” asked Odin. 

“It was just white. White walls. Very light. Like a human office. Very nondescript.”

“Oh brother,” said Metatron, her brow wrinkling.

“What?” asked Odin.

“Later. Continue, Castiel.”

“I was pulled up there on a number of occasions. Always against my will. And after I was returned, my memory of the place was somehow … blocked, until the next encounter.”

“That’s a lot of pull. Messing with a seraph like that,” said Metatron.

Cas was staring intently at the end of the bed. Dean, beside him, tried to think up the most creative and possibly bloody ways to murder Naomi. Cas spoke again, his voice shaky. “Naomi said that angels had rescued me from Purgatory. They sent an incursion of my brothers after me. And lost many lives.” The last was barely a whisper.

“WHAT?” Metatron had ceased her pacing and stood stock still in the middle of the floor. “They told you _what_?”

Castiel looked stricken. “What’s the matter?” asked Dean.

Metatron actually snorted. “Naomi is full of shit. Sending a company of angels to Purgatory? I would have sensed that! That’s cow manure. Oh, and how the bloody hell did you get yourself stranded in Purgatory, kid? You know damn well there’s Leviathan there!”

“It was my fault…” said Dean.

“No, it was my fault, Dean,” Cas told him. “It was my mess.”

“Metatron?” Sam ventured, as the archangel was looking awfully smite-y. “Maybe we should catch you up on some of this stuff … later?”

“Yeah, good idea,” she said. “I think I’m gonna need a drink. And another cigar. So, what were your orders?”

Cas frowned. “Nothing in particular. I was simply to report back about the Winchesters.”

“You think they were nosing around after those tablets, Mets?” asked Odin.

“That’d be my guess,” said Metatron.

“But who are _they_?” asked Sam, throwing up his hands. “You said you didn’t even know Naomi, right Cas?”

“The man behind the curtain?” asked Dean.

“It wasn't a curtain, Dean,” said Cas primly. “It was a one-way mirror.”

“Metaphor, Cas.”

“Oh!”

“I have an idea, gentlemen. And it’s not good news,” said Metatron.

“Who?” asked Odin.

“Someone with the raw power to drag his skinny ass out of Purgatory? And then bind up a seraph so he doesn’t know which way is up?” She shook her head. “Gotta be one of us old-timers.”

“There aren’t a lot of you left,” said Dean.

“No thanks to you,” she said, grinning at Dean. But then her expression grew more serious. “Based on the layout of the room: minimalist, cold. And the exercise of sheer power, I think it could only be one person.”

“And that’d be…” said Odin.

“My brother. The guy who’s been on my tail since I skipped town. Azrael.”

“Uhhhhh, the angel of death?” squeaked Sam. He hadn’t meant his voice to climb quite that high.

“Well. This is going to be fun!” said Odin, rubbing his hands together.

Metatron shot Odin a glare and then strode over to stand beside Castiel. “You,” she ordered, giving him a poke in the chest. “Eat something. You look like warmed-over shit. Odin?” she added, inclining her head and marching out of the room at double-time. Odin hurried after her. “We'll need to let Hel know. And that jackass, Hades....” Her voice drifted out as they hastened away.

Sam jumped up. “I’m gonna-“ he said, pointing to the doorway.

“Yeah. Go ahead,” Dean told him. “Follow that archangel.”

Sam disappeared out the door after Odin and Metatron. 

“You okay, buddy?” Dean asked Cas. “You want something to eat?” 

“I'm not hungry, Dean.”

“Not even for a cheeseburger? With bacon?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. Dean slid off the bed and went to the door, where he talked with one of the guards. “On its way,” he announced as he walked back. “Now, we gotta talk about something else. If you're still up for it?”

Cas frowned, and Dean climbed back on the bed beside him. “Sam and I – we haven't had a chance to tell Odin yet, but we ran into an old friend of yours. Inias.”

“He's alive?” Cas sat up, looking so hopeful Dean nearly cried.

“Yeah. He's okay. But he's in hiding. I guess there's been some kind of … crackdown in Heaven?”

Cas looked pained. “What kind of crackdown?”

“There's some new shadowy douche bags who've taken over upper management. If Metatron is right, maybe it’s Azrael. Anyway, they're trying to root out angels who are still sympathetic to you.”

Cas sighed and slumped. “That should be easy enough. I can’t think of many angels who would be sympathetic.”

“Dude, I think you underestimate yourself. It’s not just one person, or even a handful, it’s evidently a whole movement. You changed things. Hey, Cas. You remember an angel named Samandriel?”

Cas smiled faintly. “Yes. He was one of the younger ones. How do you know him?”

Dean stretched out his legs, and Cas, under the covers, did the same. “He came to talk to me, after I got out of Purgatory. He was wondering where you were. He said there were a lot of people there who still remembered you. And thought you meant well. Hey! Hey! You all right? Should I get Metatron?” He leaned over to take a slumping Cas in his arms.

Cas looked around at him, his eyes full of tears. “I’m all right, Dean. I think… I think I need a moment.”

Dean hesitated. “Cas. It’s okay. I’ll…. I’ll watch over you.”

And that did it. Whether he wanted it or not, Dean now had an angel sobbing on his shoulder. Dean awkwardly reached over to rub Cas gently on the back. “Okay. It’s okay. Wow. Hey. We’re lucky this isn’t Doctor Who I guess.”

The waterworks subsided somewhat as Cas pulled back, eyes and nose dripping. “What?”

“Uh, it’s a TV show. With weeping angels? It’s a long story.”

Cas wiped his eyes on the hem of his T-shirt. “Perhaps.... Perhaps I will try to watch it. While I am recovering.”

There was a knock on the door, and Dean went to retrieve a tray of burgers. They ate and talked for a while, until Sam came back to the room, lugging his laptop. “Hey, I didn’t know there was food!”

“We could probably call out for some organic non-toxic fair trade rabbit chow for you,” said Dean as Sam jammed a cheeseburger into his mouth. 

“I’m starving,” Sam muttered, collapsing into a chair and unfolding the laptop. “Valhalla has got _unbelievable_ free wireless.” He looked up from surfing and chowing down. “You feeling better, Cas? You look better.”

“Do I?” asked Cas, looking himself up and down curiously.

“See?” said Dean. “Bacon cheeseburgers heal grace. It’s a known medical fact. So, what’s up with the God Squad?”

“Odin and Metatron, they’re gonna spread the word about the return of Azrael,” said Sam.

“For whatever good that will do,” muttered Dean, remembering Lucifer turning pagan gods to chunky soup with a snap of his fingers.

“Oh, crap!” said Sam, pointing to his laptop screen.

“What now?” sighed Dean.

“Check this out,” said Sam, rearranging the burger and the computer so he could stand up and haul the lot over to Cas’s bed. “So, these guys wearing crummy suits-”

“Oh no,” groaned Dean.

“....show up at a high school football game in the middle of halftime. They announce, 'The wages of sin is death.' And then an entire stadium full of people … is obliterated.”

Dean grabbed the laptop and, as Cas peered over his shoulder, clicked through the images. The devastation was unimaginable, like a small caliber nuke had gone off. Dean shook his head. “Shit. Shit. There's nothing left but a crater.”

“Azrael,” said Cas, his eyes going wide.

“Looks like, Cas,” said Sam.

“This is my doing, Sam.” Cas looked wretched. “I escaped them. This must be … a reaction. Of some kind.”

Dean shifted on the bed to face Cas. “Okay, Cas, stop that. Now. We don’t even know for sure it is the angels.”

Dean felt Cas’s eyes boring into him. “Dean. Who else would it be? You said you saw angels for yourself when you retrieved the ghost tablet!”

“We did, but…. Look. It could be anything. Maybe another of Crowley's tricks! Namtar says he's got Leviathan down there. God knows what else he's got up his oily Eurotrash sleeve.”

“How will we be able to tell?” asked Cas.

Dean squared his shoulders. “Sam and I will go down and nose around.”

Dean was taken aback by the vehemence of Cas's reaction. “No! It's too dangerous! I need to go with you.”

“Cas! We’ll be all right. Swear to god.” Dean crossed his heart. “Don't get your feathers ruffled. Look, we’ll get Odin to send somebody along to act as bodyguard, we’ll just keep a low profile.”

Cas glared, pavonine blue eyes blazing. “You? The Winchesters? A low profile?”

Sam laughed aloud. “Don’t be so damned skeptical!” pleaded Dean. 

 

“This is bracing!” said Yamaraja, as his two yappy little dogs barked around his heels.

The Hindu Lord of Hell had somehow turned his skin from blue to more of a flesh color, and had exchanged his flowing saffron robes for a somewhat old-fashioned business suit. And his little dogs now appeared to only have one pair of eyes each, though they were still damned annoying.

They were standing in the middle of a shallowe crater, Sam, Dean, and Yamaraja, surveying the devastated area that until recently was a small town high school football stadium. Now, not even ants crawled along the cracked, dry ground.

“You know, it used to be my longstanding custom to spend one day a year walking among mortal men,” Yamaraja told them. “I’ve discarded the custom, I think, to my peril.”

“There’s nothing left alive here anyway,” said Sam. He kicked at the dry ground, and then squatted down. “Hey, does this look like salt?” he asked, sifting some clear crystals in his hand.

“I'm not volunteering to taste,” Dean grumbled.

“Seems biblical thought,” Sam mused, standing and wiping his hand on a pantleg. “Didn't they always stop and salt the earth after they smote some poor bastard?”

“This was all supposed to be the result of a gas leak?” asked Dean. “I mean, seriously?”

Sam shook his head. “Well, they’ve been doing some fracking nearby.”

“I’m sorry?” said Yamaraja, smiling in a bemused manner.

“WHAT?” asked Dean.

Sam looked pained. “Um, you know, hydrofracturinig. Basically they dig a well and use high pressure deep below the surface of the earth to release natural gas. But it causes a lot of problems.” He shrugged. “Environmental devastation. People have tap water that lights on fire, that kind of thing.”

“Flaming tap water? It actually sounds kinda cool,” mused Dean. 

“Indeed. Why didn’t I think of this,” said Yamaraja.

Sam sighed at the sheer ecological ignorance of his companions. “Well, anyway, they’re speculating that a bunch of gas migrated to the surface and was ignited somehow.”

Dean looked skeptical. “This happened because the marching band crashed too many cymbals? That sounds a little far-fetched.”

“Well, looks like we’re not gonna get anything here anyway,” said Sam. “There’s nothing left.”

“Nothing visible to the human eye, perhaps,” smiled Yamaraja. He hunkered down and gave his little dogs a command in Hindi. They scampered off and … disappeared. That is, one moment they were visible, and then next, they were not.

“Uh, where did the weird ass doggies go?” asked Dean.

“I asked them to go between worlds, to see what might be there. Ah!” With the sound of high-pitched yapping, the dogs returned. One of them carried something in its mouth.

“A feather?” asked Dean as Yamaraja held it up. He reached out to touch it, but then drew his hand away. “Ouch!” There was a drop of blood on his fingers from where the feather had sliced it. “That is one nasty feather,” he commented, sucking on his finger.

“What the hell?” asked Sam. “Is that from what I think it's from?”

“Indeed. This feather I think, gentlemen, is not from any bird,” said Yamaraja, raising an eyebrow. “Now, it seems we have method and opportunity taken care of, but what of motive? How I love whodunnits!”

As it turned out, the local sheriff didn’t think much of whodunnits. He wasn’t actually the sheriff, as the real sheriff, as well as his deputy, had been at the big game, as had just about anyone else who mattered in the town. 

“All I know is what you know,” he sighed. Dean felt sorry for him. They guy didn’t look like he was more than twenty-five. “The kids were tweeting or twittering or whatever it is they do, and one of the local TV stations had a feed. Then the Mormon missionaries or whatever the hell they were showed up at halftime, and boom!”

“You don’t mind if we ask around?” said Dean.

“You can ask, Agent Hetfield, but I don’t think you’re gonna get many answers.”

“Are they close-mouthed with strangers?” asked Sam.

“No, Agent Hammett, you see, the lawyers beat you here. Everybody who’s going for the class action, they told ‘em to keep their mouths shut. Uh, are those your dogs?”

“Agent Ulrich couldn’t get a, uh, pet sitter on such short notice,” said Dean, picking up one of Yama’s dogs, which was trailing a Sun Devils banner. 

“The home team is the Sun Devils?” asked Sam, grabbing the somewhat shredded, drool-soaked banner.

“Oh, no! That was the away team. We’re the Demons,” the sheriff told them, pointing to another banner up on the wall. “It’s an annual thing, the game. It _was_ an annual thing. We called it the yearly Hell Match. As a joke, of course.”

Dean looked questioningly at Sam. “Thanks, sheriff. I think we’re done here for now,” Sam told the guy.

“What’s the deal, Sammy?” Dean asked as they and the dogs emerged from the sheriff’s offices.

“Look around the town. All you see are banners for Demons, or Demons versus Devils. I mean, I know that’s taking things pretty literally, but we’re talking a bunch of angels here.”

 

Dean headed into Cas's room in Valhalla, only to see the space beside him on the bed was already occupied … by Metatron.

Both angels were gazing with intense concentration at a television set someone had set up in the room.

“She is in love with Dr. Sexy, but he has spurned her for another,” Cas was explaining.

“So why didn't she smite him if he dishonored her?” asked an incredulous Metatron.

“Humans don't usually smite each other a whole lot,” grinned Dean.

“Hello, Dean! I was trying to help Metatron get caught up on the current season of Dr. Sexy MD,” Cas told Dean.

“I find this show perplexing,” said the archangel. “Humans are entertained by lying, deception and heartache?”

“You'd be surprised,” laughed Dean. “But you said your vessel was an actress. Have you seen any of her movies?”

Metatron nodded. “I tried watching one. It was also very curious. They had painted her skin brown, and she wore fruit as a headdress and did a dance and sang a song in very poorly enunciated Spanish.”

“She was probably gonna compete with whatsername, Carmen Miranda?”

Both Cas and Metatron looked puzzled. “Who?”

Dean chuckled. “She, uh, danced. And wore fruit on her head. Look, it actually didn't make a lot of sense. Even to us.”

Metatron looked thoughtful and hopped up off the bed. “So, this is your intended?” she asked Cas, indicating Dean.

Cas blushed. “Uh. No. I mean, yes.” 

But Metatron had already grabbed Dean by the collar and yanked him down to her eye level where, almost nose to nose, she stared into his eyes.

“Uh, Metatron. A little … uncomfortable,” Dean sputtered. She had an iron grip. And a fairly piercing stare.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, she released his collar, and Dean stumbled back a pace. She turned to Cas. “A good soul, this one. Full of self-doubt, but so is any man worth his salt. And a noble heart,” she added, giving Dean’s chest a poke.

“Ow,” said Dean.

“That’s something you can’t fake. Well, I will leave you two. I will be back to watch some more Dr. Sexy MD in the future, however.”

“Yeah. I'll … see you later,” said Cas, watching her go. “Mets.” His lips twitched into a smile.

Dean stepped over and made sure the door was shut, and then hopped on the bed, grabbed Cas by the shoulders and pulled him into a long kiss. 

“Damn, I missed this,” sighed Dean, who squirmed into the same place Metatron had been sitting, albeit a lot closer to Cas. “Hey, we brought up some of your books.” He pointed vaguely to the nightstand and kissed Cas again.

“Yes, thank you, Dean.” Cas reached over Dean to pick up _The Psychopathy Checklist._

“You still doing your research?” asked Dean, who seemed a bit miffed to be ignored over a book. 

Cas's eyes darted up at Dean. “Crowley called me a monster. He said we were both monsters.”

“Oh, hey. You know that's not true,” Dean told him.

“He was correct. In a way. However, I have found some of the worst monsters are actually human.”

“Can't disagree with you there. Oh, hey, nice flowers!” said Dean, who had just noticed a huge bouquet of flowers set in a vase. Dean hopped off the bed and approached the dresser where they were sitting. He squinted at the card. “From Bibi, huh?”

Cas pointed an uncertain finger at the flowers. He seemed suddenly contrite. “I am unfamiliar with human customs, Dean. I hope I have not misunderstood Bibi's intentions towards me?”

Dean laughed, realizing Cas’s conclusions. “It's cool, Cas. People get flowers for other people when they're sick. It's what you do. For friends.” 

“Oh. I am not accustomed to having … _friends_ ,” said Cas.

Dean smiled sadly. “Well, like it or not, you do now.” He peered at Cas. “Hey, speaking of friends, there's something I gotta ask about your new bestie, Metatron.”

“What would you like to know, Dean?”

“She seems like a tough chick.”

“She was one of the most glorious of all the warriors of God!” said Cas proudly, his eyes shining.

Dean leaned back against the big, heavy antique dresser and crossed his arms. “Well, yeah. And she doesn't seem like she'd be afraid of much. So, why has she been up here hiding out from Azrael?” 

“Metatron would never hide from a foe, Dean,” said Cas, who radiated great offense.

“Well then, why doesn't she just go kick his ass?”

Cas looked stricken. “Dean, don't you realize.... That would be … very bad.” It came out barely above a whisper.

“Bad how?”

Cas took a breath. “You recall the fight between Michael and Lucifer? Two archangels? The harm to humanity … could be immense.”

“I thought Mike versus Lucy was the heavyweight championship?”

Cas shook his head. “As I told you Dean, I am a monster. And so is Metatron. You regard us with a minimum of reverence, which is something I find appealing about you. But remember _what_ we are. I am not human, Dean. Nor will I ever be. I was created as a soldier of the Lord.”

Dean drew closer. He put a hand on his friend’s face. “But you’re more than that, Cas. We know that.”

“Perhaps you are right. But both of these archangels, Metatron and Azrael, are older than Michael and Lucifer. And potentially a lot more powerful. Remember, this was when my Father was still attempting to create something stronger than the Leviathan. These beings do not do anything halfway. If Metatron were to fight Azrael, the collateral damage … could be devastating.”

“You mean like half of humanity devastating?”

“I mean the end of life on earth,” said Cas. “That is why she is hidden up here, and why she has warded Valhalla extensive against angel spying. It's why Naomi couldn't see me, when I traveled up here with you.”

“The end of life on earth, huh?” Dean didn't have long to ponder this because just then, there was a knock at the door. It burst open, and a very small figure charged across the room and started to climb onto the bed.

“Hey, guys, hope we're here at a good time?” said Namtar just as little Ninazu used his wings to propel himself the rest of the way onto the bed. He wriggled in beside Cas and then opened his coloring book.

“No, it's all right,” grinned Dean.

“The kid wouldn't stop jabbering about Castiel, so I thought I'd bring him by.”

“Yeah, he's a real chatterbox,” said Dean, watching as Ninazu silently colored in his Transformers book alongside Cas.

Namtar leaned over to whisper to Dean. “I told him Cas had a broken wing. I hope that was okay? I didn't really know how to explain about his grace being messed up.”

“I’m sure it’s okay.”

“Anyways, we brought this.” He held up boxed sets of Doctor Who DVDs. “Sometimes they’re a little scary for my bro, but I think he’ll be all right if we all watch them together?”

“I hope we're not coming at a bad time?” said Bibi, who had also just shown up in the doorway along with Ruth. 

“I think the more the merrier,” laughed Dean as Ruth, who was back to wearing her usual black outfit with combat boots, stopped to peck him on the cheek and then plopped herself down on the bed next to Ninazu, who proudly showed off his coloring book.

“Bibi?” said Cas.

“So sorry it's taken me this long to get up here, mate,” said Bibi, reaching out to shake his hand. “My life's gone ever so slightly pear-shaped.”

“I appreciated the flowers, Bibi,” said Cas, gesturing over to the bouquet. Cas glanced at Dean. “That was a … friendly gesture.”

“You like? These are bamboo orchids. From my homeland. Very rare up here: they only bloom in summer.”

“We were going to watch Doctor Who with Cas,” Namtar announced.

“Oi!” said Bibi, grabbing the DVDs. “Look at this Ruthie! I told you I'd get you hooked on this. It's brilliant.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “This is your British TV, right? But the special effects are so bad!”

“It's part of the charm, love.”

Dean held out a hand for the DVDs. “Do you have _Blink_ in here? Cas needs to see that one.”

“Oh, yeah. Ruthie, you'll like Martha. She's aces.”

“Well well! Do we need more chairs in here?” called Odin from the doorway. 

“We’re gonna watch Doctor Who, Uncle Odin,” said Namtar.

“This is quite a mob. Maybe we should take this down the hall then,” said Odin, peering at the video boxes.

“Hey, stand down, soldier! I didn’t give you permission to get out of bed!” Metatron yelled at Castiel, who was taking this chance to get up on his feet and stretch his vessel. 

In the end, after some confusion and a little shouting, everyone, including Sam, who had been down the hall soaking in the free wifi like the terrible geek he was, managed to decamp to a nice cosy room with a roaring fire going in the fireplace and a large flat screen TV. Cas was still wearing Dean’s borrowed pajamas, but had wrapped himself up in his trench coat, and everyone else had arranged themselves to grant him and Dean a place on the small couch right in the center, where Cas quite contentedly laid his head on Dean’s shoulder. It made Dean nervous at first, but he soon got caught up in the trials and tribulations that were the lot of an eccentric timelord.

At some point, when things had gone a little scary, Ninazu had scrambled up next to Dean and Cas, and then when it got even more scary, he had somehow wriggled in, cat-like, between the two of them. Some time later, he had snuggled himself inside of Cas’s coat, and fallen fast asleep there. 

“Aw, looks like someone’s had enough,” said Ruth.

Sam, who had been stretched out on the floor near the hearth, leaning against one of Odin’s monstrous wolves, had been dozing off himself. He shook himself awake.

“We better get you home, eh, little guy?” said Namtar, picking up his brother. He nodded to Odin, and then disappeared.

“Yeah, us too. We still gotta plan the engagement party,” said Ruth. She stood and extended a hand to help Bibi up. “Oh, quit making a face. It’s mostly _your_ relatives.”

“You damn well better invite me too,” said Odin. Ruth grinned and blew a kiss, and Bibi shook his head, and then they too were gone.

“I don’t understand,” said Metatron. “What are the Doctor’s academic qualifications?”

“I believe the appellation is more like a name,” said Cas cautiously. “Like … a joke?”

Metatron frowned at him for a moment, and then began speaking in rapid Enochian. Cas furrowed his brow, and then the conversation zinged back and forth a few rounds. 

“Oh,” said Metatron, chuckling. “I think it’s funnier in Enochian.”

“Everything is funnier in Enochian,” Cas said sadly.

“Can I just spend the night down here?” asked Sam, who still had not picked himself up off the floor. Wolves made excellent pillows he found.

“You boys wanna spend the night?” asked Odin.

“We’re not gonna impose because my brother’s a lazy bitch,” grumbled Dean.

“It’s really no problem! We have plenty of room.”

“You look … tired, Dean,” said Cas, pulling his trench coat tighter around his shoulders.

“You want us to stay?” Dean asked him.

“In separate rooms!” announced Metatron, who was quite suddenly standing between them.

“Mets!” said Odin. “Don't meddle!”

“He’s not well enough for conjugal visits!” declared Metatron as Cas blushed beet red.

“I’ll put Dean in the room next door,” said Odin.

“That will be satisfactory.” Metatron nodded and left the room.

“It’s got a connecting balcony,” Odin whispered to Dean.

Dean found himself sneaking along the balcony a little while later, hoping he wouldn’t get smited. Or smitten? Or whatever the hell it was archangels did to people who messed with recovering soldiers.

“I missed this,” he said, sliding into bed next to Cas, who was awake, of course, reading a book. 

“I missed watching over you while you sleep.” Cas ran a long finger down the side of his face. He set his book aside.

“That sounds a little weird, but I’ll take it.”

“Dean, my wings: would you take a look at them?”

“Your wings? Oh, you mean your back.”

Cas was already pulling his T-shirt over his head. 

“Look,” said Dean, “that’s the least of our worries right now. Oh! Hey, do you have a light?”

Cas twitched a finger, and the overhead light snapped on. 

Dean stared at the tattoo on Cas’s back. “Wow. I didn’t think this could look any more badass.” The wing designs had become mottled with red and yellow and orange. They now appeared to be aflame. “Your wings are … on fire. It’s amazing.”

“I think it pulled me back. When I was with Naomi. I think _you_ pulled me back.”

“I can’t take-“ Dean began, but Cas had stopped him with a kiss. 

“You saved me,” Cas muttered to him.

“Hey. Don't. You saved yourself.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you. After you…. I … I really don’t know.”

Dean found he had really had enough of weeping angels for the day. “Okay, okay. We’re not gonna get morbid here. Cas. Remember? Like we said, after Purgatory, no more bullshit. Hell, you’re the one who seems to have picked up a talent for dying recently!” He held Cas’s face in his hands. “We’re together. Right now. Because Odin let me sneak in and hopefully we’re not gonna get interrupted by an overprotective archangel.”

“We’re here now,” Cas repeated, looking at Dean as if he meant to inscribe him in his memory.

“Yeah. I’m here now, in a really big bed, with a half-naked angel.” Dean grinned. And then tried to lose himself in the moment.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 12 of ?  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we gallivant off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some from the dark recesses of my brain, and some plucked from various world mythologies. Also, no beta, so if you dig minor spelling errors, you should be in heaven.  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** Although this is set during S8, and I've tried to kinda sorta follow canon for once, this is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. 

 

“Hey guys, check it out!”

Dean wiped the sleep out of his eyes, while Cas put a marker in the book he was reading, _Snakes in Suits_. “Sammy,” Dean muttered. “Two words. Knock. First. Dumb son of a bitch.”

“I think that’s more than two words, Dean,” grinned Sam as he pulled up a chair and swung his feet up on the bed, opening his laptop. One of Odin’s monstrous pet wolves, which had followed him inside, curled up loyally at his feet. “By the way, you might wanna sneak back to your own room before Metatron catches you _in flagrante_.”

“I ain’t afraid of no archangel,” Dean declared. Because, truly, he'd had enough grief out of those bastards.

“Anyway, they’ve struck again.” Sam looked repellently smug.

“Who? The angels?” Dean rummaged around for his pants. 

Sam typed away on his laptop. “Looks that way. Same M.O. Guys in suits appear, give a speech about the wages of sin, then _boom!_ ”

Dean found himself annoyed at angel as a general principle. Well, except for Cas, who looked up at him innocently, as if he had caught Dean's last thought. “What did they hit this time?”

“Some Broadway show.”

“We should ask Bibi about this one,” said Cas. “He’s a big patron of live theater.”

“ _We_?” asked Dean, zipping his fly. “Are you coming with us?” Maybe it wasn't a terrific idea, but on the other hand, though he would never admit it, he missed his angel.

“Yes.”

Dean grinned. “Not without your pants.”

“You boys want breakfast?” asked Odin. Sam hadn’t bothered to shut the door, and now the god was standing in the threshhold. 

“That would be great!” said Dean, rubbing his stomach and grabbing his T-shirt from where someone had flung it onto a chair.

“You might wanna go scoot back to your room before Mets see you, boy,” Odin suggested.

“For the last time, I’m not afraid of Metatron,” declared Dean from somewhere inside a Metallica T-shirt.

“Who’s not afraid of me?” asked Metatron, poking her head around Odin. “Oh, no! You _didn’t_!”

“Uh. Didn’t what?” asked Dean, who moved to kick the rest of his clothes under Cas’s bed.

Dean cringed as Metatron charged into the room. Cas clutched the sheets up around him. “Oh, quit. I’ve seen male vessels before,” Metatron snorted as she seized the angel’s face and began to stare into his eyes. “Hmmmmm. Actually, he looks a lot better this morning. Yes, lots less peaked. Oh well, my bad.” She patted Cas affectionately on the cheek as he looked a bit dumbfounded.

“I’m going out with Sam and Dean today,” Cas told her.

“Well, all right,” Metatron told Cas indulgently. “Make sure he eats something for breakfast!” she warned Dean. “I’m going for a ride. Odin?” Metatron turned and marched out of the room.

“I’ll come with,” Odin called after her. “She gets a little stir-crazy, hiding up here,” he confided. “I'll have someone bring a breakfast tray around. You might consider getting dressed beforehand.” And then with a grin, he was off.

“Dude, is Metatron your commanding general or your _mom_?” Sam playfully taunted Cas.

“I.... I haven't experienced a mother before. Is.... Is this what it's like?”

“Don't ask me,” muttered Sam, his voice now tinged with sadness.

“Guys, let's focus,” said Dean. “Start thinking, what does a high school football game have in common with a Broadway show?”

“It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” sighed Sam.

“An angel and a demon walk into a bar,” said Cas, his eyes bright.

Sam frowned. “What the hell is that, Cas?”

“It’s a joke.” He straightened up. “Mets told me. An angel and a demon walk into a bar. The bartender asks, 'Is this some kind of joke?' So the angel turns around and smites the demon. The bartender asks, 'What was that?' The angel says, 'It's funnier in Enochian.'”

Dean howled with laughter, while Sam just looked perplexed. “Okayyyy,” he said. 

“And you said you surmised the angels were upset about the blasphemous team names, Dean?” asked Cas, ever eager to show his hunting chops.

“Yeah.”

“Perhaps the play's subject matter was objectionable to them?”

 

“Glengarry Glen Ross?” said Bibi. It was intermission, and they were all clutching little plastic cups full of wine. 

“Yeah, what's it about?” asked Dean. He usually didn't drink wine, but this stuff was pretty damn good, and most probably didn’t come out of a box.

“Selling real estate,” said the Rakshasa. Despite currently posing as a human, the air around him seemed to turn a bit darker with his agitation.

“Why would this annoy angels?” asked Sam.

“What _doesn’t_ annoy angels?” sighed Bibi.

“The wine is tasty!” said Cas, as all looked at him. “I don't find it annoying.”

“Hey, I go to the loo and we have visitors!” said Ruth, who had indeed just showed up in the crowded theater lobby. “How are you, Castiel? Are you feeling better?”

Cas blushed. “I am much recovered. Thank you for asking.”

“You wanna watch the second act with us? It’s _How to Train Your Dragon_. It’s really excellent. The dragons are fantastic.”

“Isn’t that a kid’s show?” asked Dean.

“I think it’s useful for Ruthie,” said Bibi, taking her hand. 

“Useful?” asked Dean, but he got no further information from the pair of smitten gods.

“They’re on a case, love,” Bibi told Ruth. “Some angels came in and walloped a show of _Glengarry Glen Ross._ ”

Ruth wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yuck, that horrible show with the men cursing?”

“It won a bloody Pulitzer!”

“There is a lot of cursing in this play?” asked Cas, who suddenly seemed interested in something other than the wine.

Ruth rolled her eyes. “That’s all it is! Everyone is grumpy and conniving and horrible, every character, and it’s all fuck this, fuck that, fuck the other.”

“Do they take the Lord’s name in vain?” asked Cas, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, hell yes. Every line.”

Dean frowned. “Wait, Cas. You gotta be joking. You think they got in trouble for cursing? Even for a bunch of angels, isn’t that a little weak?”

“It’s one of the Ten Commandments, Dean,” his brother reminded him.

“They’re gonna ding you for cursing?” asked Dean, mentally tallying up his own violations, which were legion.

“Sam,” said Cas. “Could this be the pattern? A violation of the biblical Ten Commandments?”

Sam looked up, thinking. “The first one was demons and devils. That could count as ‘have no other gods before me.’ And now taking the Lord’s name in vain….”

“Then what’s up next?” asked Dean.

Sam opened his mouth, but Cas spoke first. “In the Philonic, Talmudic, or Augustinian division?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just pick one.”

“Remember the Sabbath, and keep it holy.” In Cas's voice, it really did sound like an order from God himself.

“So we have ‘til Sunday. That’s not much time.”

“Jewish Shabbat is observed from sundown on Friday-“ Cas began.

“Wait, we don’t even know _which_ Sabbath?” asked Dean, who wasn't familiar with the concept much outside the oeuvre of Ozzy Osbourne.

Cas's face was a deadpan of sincerity. “Humans tend to be … capricious.”

“We have to figure out what _Azrael_ would consider the Sabbath, and what he thinks is a violation,” said Sam.

The lights began to flash on and off. “The second act is starting,” said Bibi. “Sure you fellows don’t want to stay? Ruth can scrounge good tickets.”

Dean shook his head. “No, we should probably get back on the trail of some _capricious_ angels. Thanks, guys,”

 

Cas zapped them back to the last place the Impala had been stashed: Moab, Utah, although the journey in his weakened state clearly wore on the angel. After checking in to an appropriately funky motel, Dean insisted that they grab lunch, and actually allowed Cas to eat most of his own meal, though he did steal a few french fries (even though, as Sam helpfully pointed out, Dean had his own). Afterwards they deposited Sam at a local library, and then Dean drove Cas out to the edge of town, to a large abandoned parking lot, although Cas was not amused when Dean revealed the purpose of their mission.

“I fail to see why an angel would need to operate a motor vehicle, Dean.”

Dean had managed, with much cajoling, to wrangle his angel into the driver’s seat of the Impala, but now they stood at an impasse, Cas scowling with his arms crossed, not unlike a truculent five year old. “Hey, you’re always whining about sitting in the front seat!” Dean, said, attempting to be reasonable. This garnered The Great Scowl of Smiting. “Okay, look, what if we’re off on a job and I get injured so I can’t drive?”

“Sam will drive.”

“And what if Sam isn’t with us?”

“I will transport you to safety, Dean.”

“No you won't. Your grace is still healing up,” said Dean. That got a side glance. It was still a touchy subject. But damned if he was going to lose this battle of wills with a stubborn seraph. “There I am, Cas, lying, bleeding on the ground….”

Cas turned towards Dean, a skeptical look in his eyes. “Why are you bleeding?”

“Well, something got me. Obviously.”

“What got you?”

“Uhhhh. A revenant?”

Cas smiled smugly. “Then I will heal you.”

“Your mojo’s still flakey! I just said that. You’ve gotta get me to a hospital.” Dean suddenly moaned, clutched his side, and collapsed with a flourish against the bench seat, sticking his tongue out to emphasize the seriousness of the illness. He stuck one hand up, jingling the car keys.

Cas irritably snatched away the keys.

“OK,” said Dean, sitting up despite his imaginary mortal wounds. “Now first you need to turn her on. So take the key-“

Cas flicked his hand.

The motor started.

Cas smiled with satisfaction.

“OK. Cas. That’s cool. That’s really, really cool. And the next time we need to hot wire a car, we’ll ask you. But I said, _no mojo_.”

Cas’s brow wrinkled.

“Cas. Turn it off and do it the right damn way!”

The engine went off. Angelic resentment permeated the front seat.

“So, key goes in here,” Dean instructed. “Now, make sure that your foot is on the brake and it’s in park. Got that?”

Cas nodded unenthusiastically, although he checked the parameters as Dean had instructed.

“OK. Ease the key forward until it catches, and then back up.” 

Cas did as instructed, rolling his eyes as the engine started once again. 

“All right. Let’s check the adjustment on the mirrors-“

“I can see the full back windshield through the rear-view mirror, Dean. I would be able to sense traffic in back of us-“

“Not without your mojo you wouldn’t! No angel bullshit, we’re gonna just do this right. Now, check your blind spots. Turn your damn head!”

Cas sighed and looked over his shoulder. “There is no traffic approaching from the middle of this _empty parking lot_ ,” he grumbled.

“Great! Now we go to drive, and ease off the brake, and onto the throttle.”

Cas shifted the lever mounted on the steering wheel into drive, and then, with a bored deliberation, shifted a foot from the brake to the accelerator. The car lurched forward, but then, after only a few meters, suddenly slammed to a halt as Cas slammed the brake.

“What’s wrong? I’m bleeding out, remember!” Dean looked over at Cas, who, sitting wide-eyed in the driver’s seat, appeared to have just witnessed the Second Coming.

“That was…. Dean. The sensation….” Cas scowled at his feet, as if they had betrayed him. 

Dean grinned from ear to ear, patting the dashboard affectionately. “Yeah, wait ‘til you open her up on a highway. Now, keep going this time, we’re gonna circle the parking lot. Up ahead, and turn left.”

More carefully this time, Cas slid his foot to the accelerator and approached the edge of the parking lot, where he braked and turned. He completed the same maneuver, with lessening awkwardness, twice, then three times, then finally a fourth time, which brought them back where they had begun.

“OK, this time we’ll add signals, since you’re not gonna be driving around an empty parking lot.”

“Dean! This vehicle obeys your commands.”

“Yeah. I’ll take you underneath and show you the drive train when we get back. Now, that’s your turn signal….”

 

When they picked him up later, Sam announced that he had found a short list of potential Ten Commandment violations. “Oh, and conveniently enough, none of them are anywhere near each other,” Dean sighed as he looked over the list.

“You’re welcome,” grunted Sam from his place in the back seat. “And what’s up with the angel chauffeur?” he added, as, oddly enough, Cas was the one driving them back to the motel.

“You’re gonna hunt, you gotta drive,” said Dean.

“He’s an angel, Dean,” his brother informed him.

“Really? Whoa. With wings and shit?”

“Does he even know the rules of the road?”

Cas, who was pouring all of his angelic attentiveness into checking his blind spot and proper turn signal operation, piped up. “I have memorized the Department of Motor Vehicles pamphlet, Sam. By the way, do you know I have noted that you habitually do not signal with sufficient distance from the turn? This might hamper road safety.”

“You hear that? You hamper road safety, Sam,” laughed Dean, as Sam fumed.

“Metatron might be able to help you narrow down the list, Sam,” Cas offered. “She’s better acquainted with Azrael than I am.”

“Hey, good idea, Cas,” said Dean, pulling out his phone.

Sam huffed in frustration. “Dean, before you hit the speed dial to your favorite Norse god again, have you considered we’re maybe using that card too often?”

“What’s the matter? Odin’s a good guy. He helped us when Cas was hurt.”

“Yeah, but he’s got his own agenda. They always do. He was hiding an archangel and a tablet from us. I mean, what else does the guy have going on?”

Dean was having none of it. “The dude has shared some pretty heavy secrets with us. And besides, this time we’re gonna chat with Metatron. It’s pretty clear she likes Cas, so I think she’s cool.”

“Do you think Metatron likes me?” Cas asked, actually venturing to turn his head towards Dean for a brief moment.

“She lets you call her Mets, dude.”

Cas puffed up.

“Wait, has Cas got a crush on Metatron?” asked Sam, hooking his elbows over the back of the front seat.

“It’s not a crush,” Dean told him.

“She is very …well-regarded,” sighed Cas, his eyes getting a dreamy cast to them.

“See? She’s well-regarded.” 

“It’s a crush.”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

 

“The weather if fine today. I’m going out for a ride. Care to come along, Dean?” asked Odin.

Dean gave his best puppy dog eyes to Sam, who waved him off. “Go ahead. Me and Metatron need to do, you know, _work_.”

“Your brother seems to get along well with Odin,” Metatron commented as Dean and Odin left the room, the Norse god clapping the hunter on the shoulder.

“He’d move up here if they let him,” Sam grumbled. “Dean always wanted to be a big legendary hero, like a cowboy or Batman or something.”

Metatron did the angel-stare thing at Sam for an uncomfortably long while. “And what about you, Sam?” she finally asked.

“I just wanna be normal. I’ve always wanted to be normal. And boring. Just a house with a white picket fence. And kids on a swing set out back. You know, normal.” 

Metatron frowned. She turned and said something to Cas in Enochian. Cas gestured at Sam and then they went back and forth. And then he turned to Sam. “She was asking about the fence. She was confused as to why you would not choose cold iron, as that keeps spirits at bay. I told her it was not so much the particular style or composition as what it symbolizes. It's a _metaphor_. Isn’t that true?”

_I am explaining to a pair of space aliens about how I want to be normal,_ thought Sam. _This is my life._

 

“Up here,” said Odin. 

Dean patted his horse and tied up her reigns, and then hurried after Odin to peer down the overlook. The view, of rolling plains rimmed by purple mountains, was astonishingly bright despite the perpetually low sun.

“That’s Valhalla back there,” the king pointed out. Dean followed his finger to see the golden hall, now far in the distance. “And that’s Gladsheim, and over there, the temple of the goddesses, Vingolf.”

It was all very stark, but very beautiful. “So, this is all Asgard?”

“Far as the eye can see. And it’s only one of the Nine Worlds!”

“I just wanna take off and ride around and see everything, you know?”

“I had the same notion, back when I was your age.” Odin pulled out a cigar case from his vest, offering one to Dean.

“There’s just never any time, you know? And we always end up dealing with crap. Demons and angels … and gods. It always seems to fall in our laps.”

Odin lit his cigar. “It’s a lot to put on a mortal man.”

“It’s a lot to put on _anyone_.” Dean wasn't exactly sure why he was venting to Odin. Dude had had to fend off a demon attack not too long ago. Plus the whole “getting murdered by Lucifer” thing.

“Your angel – he’s immortal.”

Dean studied his cigar. “If I can keep him alive this time, yeah.”

“You worry about him?”

“All the time.” Dean turned to Odin. “I’m glad he’s found people like you. He needs people to take care of him. When I’m gone.”

Odin looked thoughtful. “What if it didn’t have to be that way?”

Dean snorted. “You mean cut out his grace? I’ve had to talk him out of it. Killing himself isn’t the answer. You saw how bad he was when it was injured. I don't think being human suits him.” He thought again of the terrible vision of 2014 Cas Zachariah had shown him so long ago. Zachariah had been an ass, that was certain, but it carried a ring of truth for Dean.

“No. But you know, Bibi and Ruth came up against the same thing.”

Dean stared at Odin. 

Odin turned to gaze out at the view. “You met my son, Baldur, right? That day at the Elysian Fields?”

Dean frowned at the sudden change in topic. “Briefly. Before Lucifer ganked him. And ganked you.”

Odin smiled. “We were idiots. We probably deserved it.”

“Well…. Yeah, actually.” It was difficult for Dean to think of the Odin as even the same person who had showed up at the hotel so long ago, raving about Ragnarok. Dean considered things for a moment. “So. Did Metatron bring you back?”

“Yes. Yes she did, actually. She had given over the tablet to my predecessor, and then took off for wherever the hell she goes when she’s feeling footloose. But according to what they tell me, she showed up one day, a few years back, after the apocalypse nonsense was wrapped up, and then took it upon herself to call me back.”

“New and improved,” said Dean.

“I’m not exactly new, and the latter is up for debate,” laughed Odin.

“No, something a friend said to me once. And she used spells from the tablet?”

“Yes, although she occasionally has trouble reading her own handwriting after all this time. But there’s an essential trick to it, the summoning. You can’t create something from nothing. Nobody has that power, outside God himself.”

Dean thought about it. “So. You were a mortal before you were … you? Like Ruth?”

“Yes, exactly! I was a businessman. My family had money, I then made a lot more money pushing other money around. I ended up giving a good chunk of it away to charity.”

“I guess rich people think differently.”

“I think they do, son. I was also a member of my country’s Olympic equestrian team. That’s how Mets spotted me.”

“You were just some horsey rich dude?” laughed Dean.

“I was just some horsey rich dude,” grinned Odin.

“But you remember all of that? So it’s not like being a vessel?”

“No, I am definitely not an empty vessel. I’m still me. Substantially. But I gained all his powers. And his memories. I’m not saying it was easy: if I had any idea, pretty as she is, I might have told Mets to go fuck herself when she asked.”

Dean nodded.

“Then together, we brought back Kali’s son, and made Ruth the new Trickster when Bibi's pantheon asked for a favor.”

“And Baldur?” asked Dean.

“Baldur. He had a quality to him. A very special quality. I never met anyone who disliked him.”

Dean stopped to consider. “You didn't bring back Baldur yet because you're looking for the right dude.

“Well, that’s the key, Dean. Metatron has the tablet with the right mumbo jumbo, but the heart of it is to find the right person. We searched high and low to find Ganesha. I think we chose right.”

“And Ruth?”

Chuckling, Odin puffed out cigar smoke. “I think that one was literally born to be a Trickster.”

Dean was silent.

Odin turned to face Dean. “And as for Baldur-“

Dean stared. Odin’s hand was on his shoulder. “Odin-“

“I think I’ve finally found the right man.”

 

Dean had been acting uncharacteristically subdued when Cas got them all back to the motel. “So, Metatron swore up and down that the angels are gonna target the golf tournament,” Sam told them.

“Any special reason?” asked Dean, who was staring off into the distance.

“She just kept repeating, _I know my brother, I know my brother_.”

“I guess she does. They’ve both been around a million billion years, right?”

“Yeah.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Well, I’m heading off to my room I guess,” said Sam. Dean grunted and, without any word, started to move towards the stairs.

“Good night, Sam,” said Cas, heading after Dean. 

Sam was left in the parking lot, thinking that Cas almost never bothered to say goodbye.

Cas and Dean entered their own room in silence. “You are troubled this evening, Dean. More troubled than usual, anyway.”

“Did you know about this, Cas?” asked Dean, thunking down on one of the beds.

Cas sat down across from him. “Know about _what_ , Dean?”

“Odin just offered me a job.”

“Yes?” Cas looked honestly puzzled.

“As the new Baldur.”

Cas’s jaw dropped and, as Dean watched, about twenty different emotions flickered across the usually impassive angel’s face. “What … did you say to him Dean?”

“Of course I turned him down. Flat.” Dean kicked off his shoes and scooted back to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“Oh.” Cas sat staring intently at the floor.

“But he told me I need to think about it for a couple weeks. You think I’m being an idiot, don't you?”

“No. Dean.” Cas held up his hands, but didn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I haven’t- I don’t know. I didn’t know about this. Whatever you do, that’s fine. Of course.”

“You didn’t want me to be Michael’s vessel.”

Cas’s eyes went wide. “That would have destroyed you.”

“But you think it’s OK to play Kermit the Frog for a pagan god?”

Cas frowned. “We both witnessed Ruth going through the process. I don’t believe she is any kind of puppet.”

“Well, it turns out the new Odin was some Norwegian do-gooder before he got tapped.”

Cas was nodding. “He was human? Yes. That makes sense now. Only my Father can create anew.”

Dean was scowling at the angel. “And you think this all is great?”

“Dean. I have my own selfish reasons for wishing you to follow … a particular path. But it’s not for me to say.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Cas. You're my closest friend. The closest … I've ever been to anybody except Sammy. I need to hear you, man. You should say what you think. Remember? No bullshit.”

Cas cast his eyes down and held his sides. He whispered something.

Dean leaned forward to put his hands on Cas's knees. “Okay. What? Spit it out.”

“I…. I want you to do it.” 

Dean swallowed hard. “All right, well. Okay. Look, do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Don't tell Sammy.”

Cas stared. “Dean. Why would you not want to tell your brother?”

“There's just.... I'm just.... There's a lot of stuff going on right now. I just need a couple days. There's a crazy archangel of death on the loose, and we gotta keep our head in the game.”

“So.... You haven't actually decided?” 

Dean cringed at the hopeful look in Cas's eyes. “Cas. I know where you're coming from. But we have no idea if I'd be the same person afterwards.”

Cas nodded, wiping an eye. “Dean. It’s your decision. I just know that, after you … die, for the last time, your soul will likely journey to the one place where I am not welcome any more.”

Dean crossed over to sit next to Cas, draping an arm over his shoulders. “Look. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure something out.”

“You said … no bullshit,” Cas told him.

“I did, didn’t I? Well you know something? I’m an idiot.”

“I know.”

Dean smiled.

“Dean, please promise me something. Before you decide, no matter what you decide, talk to your brother.”

“I-”

“Promise me, Dean.”

Dean leaned over to kiss Cas, but the angel gently pushed him back. “Stubborn seraph. Okay. When I find the right time, I'll talk to Sam.”

“What is the right time?”

“Some time when we're, you know, relaxed.”

Cas looked skeptical, but allowed Dean to kiss him this time.

 

“I don't understand, Dean. Why are we dressed like this?”

“Because this is golf, Cas,” said Dean, who turned to straighten up Cas's horrible golf sweater. “It's the only place where grown men can run around in purple and green plaid and get away with it.”

“I thought we were supposed to remain inconspicuous,” said Cas, eyeing his purple and green plaid pants.

“You'll fit right in,” grinned Dean, as Odin walked up. The Norse god's golf pants were grey and blue plaid, and his sweater had lines of huge red and blue diamonds running up and down. The golf course stretched out for miles, and it was a bright, sunny day, making their ridiculous clothes shine all the brighter. Birds sang, it all smelled like new-mown grass, and it was kind of awesome.

“Thanks for getting us in on this,” said Sam, who actually looked very spiffy in his golf togs. Dean would have thought that his brother had made some kind of deal with the devil, but he knew better.

“Thought it would benefit us to keep an eye on this from the inside.” Odin cast an eye around the course. It was early, and the crowds had just begun to arrive. “They'll be following the professionals around, and the real celebrities, so they're not likely to pay us much mind.”

“So you're still … you?” asked Dean. “I mean, human you? Like a secret identity?”

Odin laughed. “Yes, I guess you could say that. And I was a celebrity, though a very minor one.” Cas stood pulling at his ugly golf sweater. “Hadn't occurred to me that your angel hadn't played before though. Will you be able to fake it, Castiel?”

Cas furrowed his brow at Odin. “Playing a human game? It shouldn't be any problem,” he scoffed.

“I'll watch over him,” grinned Dean, clapping Cas's shoulder. “Keep him out of the rough.”

“We should be on the lookout for angels,” Cas retorted.

“I think we'll have enough eyes out for that,” said Odin, waving to some new arrivals. 

“I can't believe they don't let women play on this course,” groused Ruth, who, in contrast to absolutely everyone else, was dressed in her usual black on black thrift shop clothes.

“Probably not in that outfit, it's too tasteful,” joked Odin.

“My darling dearest, can you even _play_ golf?” asked Bibi, his arm around her shoulders.

“Well.... No.”

“Cas doesn't play either,” Dean volunteered, as Cas bristled. “We just dressed him up in pastels.”

“You are a novice, Castiel?” asked Yamaraja, who had just walked up with Hades. The Hindu hell god had once again donned his mortal look, and Hades had turned down the flame so he too looked almost human. 

“I haven't played golf before,” Cas sulked.

“Then it should be my honor to partner with you!” said Yamaraja. “I so enjoy introducing new people to the links! It is one of my favorite pastimes.”

“You golf, Yama?” snorted Hades. “Wouldn't bowling be more suitable?”

“You must get out of your environment every so often, that's what I say,” Yamaraja told him.

Cas looked questioningly at Dean. “Yeah, sure, why don't you go with him,” said Dean.

“Will you and Sam be all right?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I think we've sort of figured out how to take care of ourselves, yeah.”

“I'm so sorry, am I totally late?” asked Namtar, who came rushing up looking frantic. “Ninazu really wanted to come and see Cas and the guys and I had to convince him it would be boring and dangerous....”

Cas's face produced a short but sweet burst of a smile. “I will see Ninazu afterwards. We have many pages of his book yet to color.”

“Oh, yeah, hey, he'd appreciate that! He never stops talking about you.”

Dean elbowed Sam and whispered, “Have you ever seen that kid actually say a word?” Sam grinned and shrugged. 

Odin raised his arms. “Now, Namtar, you come along with me and Sam and Dean, son. Our tee off time is approaching. The rest of you, keep a close watch.”

“And remember this ain't like fighting demons,” said Bibi.

“We are hopefully not fighting, as we are hopelessly overmatched,” said Odin. “Our priority is to get people to safety. Bamboozle them a bit, like Ruth.”

“I wanna _play_ ,” grumped Ruth.

“I'll let ya tee off when we're out of sight,” Bibi promised as they walked off.

“It's still capitulating to the patriarchy.”

 

As far as the game of golf went, Dean found he was rusty as hell, but he still managed to have a good time. Namtar, with some coaching, was not half bad, and Odin, of course, was a wonderful player, as was Sam, once he got warmed up. 

“Why are you laughing?” Sam asked Dean as they walked in the warm sunshine.

“Oh, I was just thinking, this is your life, isn't it, Sammy? Spending Sunday wearing a ridiculous outfit, out chasing after a little white ball?”

Despite the lovely surroundings, Sam creased his brow. “Yeah, Dean, actually. I wouldn't mind this.”

Dean grinned wide. “Hey. Maybe, some day.”

“Really?”

“Don't be so skeptical.”

They walked down to the green, where Odin was talking Namtar through his putt. 

“You have to figure in the lie of the grass as well. You saw what happened with my attempts!”

“You curse like a demon, Uncle Odin,” grinned Namtar, who was squatting down to line up his shot.

“Wonder how Cas is doing,” Dean whispered to Sam.

“He probably got annoyed and is just using his mojo.”

“He wouldn't do that!”

“Very good! Excellent!” said Odin as Namtar sank the putt.

“Oh, cool, you're one shot under for this one, Namtar,” Sam told him as he squinted at the score sheet. He walked over to the green to confer with Namtar.

“I rock!” yelled the boy.

Odin had drifted over to where Dean was standing on the edge of the green. “That one doesn't have much of a relationship with his stepfather. I think a boy needs a male role model. And I'm damned grateful you boys have shown an interest.”

“Well, yeah, I know about deadbeat dads,” Dean sighed. “By the way, Odin, that … thing we talked about the other day-”

“Now, I already told you, I'll take no answer, yes or no, for at least two weeks! I didn't know what _I_ was jumping into. I hope you'll be able to think on it. Talk it over with your brother.”

“Sam doesn't know.”

Odin stared. “You didn't tell Sam?”

“Didn't tell me what?” asked Sam, who had just walked up, and who evidently hadn't had his ears totally ruined by years of listening to Dean's heavy metal tapes blasting through the car.

“Sam-” said Dean.

There was a flash of light. And then a scream. And they all ran charging as fast as they could up towards the sound, back towards the low rise where they had all teed off.

And there they were, a cluster of suit-clad douche bags standing in the middle of the course. A pro foursome was playing through, and they had collected quite a crowd. Some of the frightened spectators had already tried to run, only to be corralled by the angels. The rest watched, frozen in terror.

One of the taller male angels stepped up to speak. “The wages of sin is- Oh what the fuck?”

Because just then a sleek black dragon came screaming over the hill. It looked an awful lot like a Night Fury. It was soon joined by a Monstrous Nightmare and a Hideous Zippleback.

The crowd broke and ran as the angels were distracted by the terrifying monsters approaching from the sky. Several of them began making smiting gestures, to absolutely no effect, which appeared to confuse them. 

“Namtar, you and Sam go help people to safety. Dean, with me,” ordered Odin, who drew his sword and took off running straight into the heart of the battle.

The lead angel cringed as the Night Fury dive-bombed him, spraying him with fire. He shook his head in confusion though when he realized he wasn't burned.

“It's a trick! Ignore them!” the angel boomed. He turned, and Hades threw a fireball at him. The angel shrieked as his clothes started to burn. “Shit!” the angel screamed. “That one's real!”   
But then there was an angel blade sticking from his charred chest, and he sunk the ground, a hot white light glowing out of him, as Cas stood over him, holding a bloody angel sword.

Ruth rushed another angel, who kept trying to smite her to absolutely no effect. She kicked him in the neck, and then hopped away, shouting in pain. The angel was yanked back and stabbed with an angel sword by Bibi.

“That one!” Odin shouted to Dean, who ran around behind him. The angel found himself pinned to a tree with Odin's spear, and Dean made short work of him with his angel blade. But then another angle gestured at Dean and sent him flying. He landed on soft grass, and raised his head in time to see Cas crossing swords with his attacker. 

“Cas! Look out!”

Cas managed to stab the woman he was fighting in time to turn around and get his sword up to face another attacker, who knocked Cas down. Yamaraja was behind, and got his saber into the guy, but unfortunately he didn't have an angel sword, so it only distracted his foe. The angel turned, drew out the blade, and gutted Yamaraja before Cas could leap to his feet.

Bibi, with a yell of, “Uncle, No!” ended up stabbing the angel with his angel sword. He then sunk to his knees beside Yamaraja, who was bleeding badly from his terrible wound..

Dean got up and, though still feeling shaky, ran towards the thick of the fighting.

“Stop!”

Dean halted, as did everyone else.

A female angel was standing in their midst. A male angel beside her was holding Namtar, angel blade at the boy's throat. Sam was standing nearby, looking panicked.

“Naomi!” shouted Cas. “Let him go. Now!'

“Castiel.” She seemed preternaturally calm. “We want the tablet. Give us the angel tablet.”

“We don't have the angel tablet,” Cas told her. “You should know that.”

“Then find it. Or he dies.”

“Just let him go,” Sam pleaded. “He's just a kid.”

“He's an abomination,” sneered Naomi. She turned to stare at Castiel again. “And so are you. You have fallen in every way possible, Castiel.”

Cas took a step forward, and she cringed. “If any harm comes to that boy, I will do everything in my power to see you fall farther. And harder.”

The angel guarding Namtar shrieked, holding up his hand, which the boy had just managed to bite right in the tender spot between the thumb and forefinger. The angel waved a hand at him.

“Namtar!” shouted Sam, who pushed the boy out of the way. He fell to the ground in a dead faint as the angel smote him instead of Namtar.

“Take him! Now!” shouted Naomi. The bleeding bitten angel gestured at Sam, and then he and Sam both disappeared to the sound of beating wings.

“The angel tablet!” yelled Naomi. “Or he dies.”

Dean didn't even think: he had his angel sword out and rushed Naomi. She sidestepped and then, before anyone could intervene, twisted her hand, and Dean fell, his own sword in his abdomen. 

And then Naomi, and the remaining angels, disappeared with a rush of wings.

“Cas,” muttered Dean. He couldn't see very well, but he knew who was beside him, cradling his head. He reached up blindly and touched the angel's face. And then passed out.

Cas could feel Dean's heart beating more and more slowly. “He's been struck with an angel blade. I can't heal this.” He looked up at Odin, a plea in his eyes. “Odin. He's dying.”

The god knelt down silently beside him. “No one can heal angel blade wounds,” he whispered. “Not even if we get him to Mets in time.”

Cas's eyes were wet. An then he frowned, a look of determination crossing his face. “Odin. The transformation. Do it.”

“Son. You know there’s no taking it back,” said Odin.

“Do it! _Now!_ ”

Odin swallowed hard. “Get him up. On his feet. It may already be too late.”

Beginning to panic now, Cas pulled Dean’s arm over his shoulder, yanking the dying hunter up to slump beside him. Hades went over and held Dean from the other side.

“Get me a sword!” ordered Odin. Bibi, who was teary-eyed, handed over Yamaraja's blood-stained saber. Odin raised it heavenward. Thunder cracked. And then he brought the flat side down on one of Dean’s shoulders, and then the other, as if he was knighting him. Then, chanting in Enochian, Odin touched the flat of the blade to his own forehead, and then gently brought the tip down so it was aimed directly at Dean’s heart.

It was like an electrical current. Cas squeezed his eyes shut, blinded by the power. Dean had begun to move on his own, his body suddenly stiff, arched back.

Dean threw back his head and screamed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 13 of 16  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we skip merrily off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: none have rainbow eyes nor sparkle, but if that annoys you, you’ve been warned. Also, no beta, though I promise I know the difference between “lay” and “lie.”  
 **Word Count:** 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. Also, I’m pretty sure this is going to end up at 16 chapters, unless they poof up too much in the final edit and I need to make another split. 

 

“So, you're certain?”

Nergal sat back in his chair, grinning and worrying a fingernail with a sharp silver emery board. “I attended the funeral. I witnessed the funeral pyre. The Lord of Naraka is dead.” He spoke the last with what he sincerely hoped was a portentous intonation, equal to the gravity of the announcement.

Crowley too sat back behind his desk, swirling his glass of scotch, looking, as he so often did, crafty. “So, the Hindu hell is currently running with a situation vacant at the head?”

“Yamaraja was an ass,” sniffed Nergal, the focus of whose entire fierce consciousness was currently directed at a hangnail on his ring finger.

Crowley's featured etched a smile. “There's one billion Hindus, Sunshine. How many Babylonians you spotted out there lately?”

Nergal bristled, his attention briefly diverted from his cuticles. “I haven't forgotten our bargain, Crowley. When this is over-”

Crowley made a big show of heaving an impatient sigh at the uppity pagan. “Yes, yes, you've been a great little turncoat, and you'll get the keys to Naraka.”

“I want the kingdom, not just the keys,” snorted Nergal, who was rather used to dealing with detail-oriented demons.

Crowley feigned disappointment. “We'll have it tattooed on your forehead, Dove. Now. What about the Winchesters?”

The emery scratching ceased for the announcement. “Dean Winchester … is dead.”

“You're _sure_?”

Nergal reared at the implied contradiction by the obviously stupid, stupid demon. “My sources say he was struck with an angel blade.” Which, of course, settled it. 

Crowley waved his glass, splattering whiskey everywhere, and screamed, “But DID YOU SEE THE BODY?” As Nergal was a foreigner, and it had been scientifically established that shouting at foreigners worked.

“Well.... No,” the god admitted, putting away the nail file. “But it's no matter. My sources are infallible.” Said sources being a teenager who was late for Calculus class and his toddler brother. Details….

Crowley thumped his whiskey glass down on the table, spilling enough liquid in the process to pool under the glass and, in the fullness of time, produce an unattractive little ring on the antique desk, for which he would surly smite two or three underlings. “Nergal. Pumpkin. Didn't you already attempt to kill the Winchester ninnies once before? Now tell me, how did that go? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR SHOES?”

“I have dead skin on my heels!” said Nergal, who had slipped off a sandal, and was now brandishing a pumice stone.

“Not in the office. I just cleaned the carpet.”

“What about the angels?” taunted Nergal, sullenly fixing a heel back in its strap.

“Don't worry about the angels. Worry about Dean Winchester. My pets will make short work of those feather-draped bores.”

Nergal regarded his newly buffed nails. “The Leviathan? You _barely_ control them.”

Crowley found he suddenly felt a great need to smite something. Anything. “I have the situation well under control thank you.” Quietly as he could his hand strayed into a desk drawer.

Nergal smiled. “And here is something you didn't know about Dean Winchester.”

Crowley froze, his hand around the revolver inside his desk drawer, wondering if this supposed information was worth the frustration of not shooting Nergal in the head with a silver bullet. “Yes?”

“My sources tell me that Dean Winchester's soul is not in heaven.”

Crowley took his hand off the gun and closed the drawer. Now this – this was interesting. A dozen possibilities zinged through his mind. “Why wouldn't it go to heaven?”

“Some say he's been consorting too closely with pagan gods of late. You know, the likes of me. Bringing down the property values, and all that.”

“But if Captain Ducklips didn't make it to heaven … where the hell did he go?”

“Exactly.” 

Crowley glared at Nergal, who rose to leave.

“Anyway, I need to get back. Erie must be wondering where I am.” And then Nergal was gone, leaving only the slight whiff of sulfur and a fine spray of downy feathers.

“I need to get the damned carpet cleaned again,” Crowley sulked. He summoned a lackey, who appeared in his office. “I need to go through our intake with a fine-toothed comb. Have any Winchesters shown up in recent times?”

The lackey rolled his eyes. “Winchesters. Who can tell? Those people drop like flies.”

“Get to the DMV. Check the records….”

“And then they leave. They come, they leave. After all we’ve done for them, nice pleasant spot on the torture rack, or prime real estate in the cage.”

“Just check the records for Winchesters? Oh, and the carpet-“ But the lackey had already popped out, tutting over ungrateful Winchesters. “Fuck me,” grunted Crowley, pouring himself another scotch.

 

Sam awoke, not entirely certain where he was.

Not that it mattered.

He climbed out of the Impala's back seat, yawning and shaking off sleep. He scrounged around on the floor and found a half-filled plastic bottle of water, and used that to brush his teeth. 

It was cold, so he struggled into another layer of clothing, started the car, and began to drive. He needed to drive. To get somewhere. Somewhere away from where he was. 

His mind drifted, trying to remember how long it had been since that day. His consciousness couldn't even wrap around what had happened, what he had lost. The emptiness. He stepped on the gas and drove, aching to get away. Sam had barely eaten, and only slept when he could no longer keep his eyes open. He couldn't stop. He just couldn't stop.

The sky darkened. Thunder rolled. The rain came down, slow at first, and then more and more, drumming on the window, bathing the world in slopped water.

And there it was, the same place it always was, no matter where he turned or how long he drove, darting out onto the roadway before he could stop. And Sam was too damn sleepy and distracted and lost and sad to avoid it.

“Dean!” he screamed. Too late. Too late....

He gasped, suddenly thrown into the passenger seat as the car jerked madly left, and then careened around back right, the tail fanning out. He turned in shock, swiveling around to peer out the rain-soaked back window. Watching the surprised figure that the car had miraculously managed to avoid hitting, standing on the roadway, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

He turned to the driver.

“Hello Sam.”

“Cas?”

“This is a recurring dream of yours, Sam?” asked the familiar trench coated angel, who was now, preposterously enough, driving the car.

“How did you know?” asked Sam.

“I don't sleep, as you know. Some weeks ago, when you fell asleep in our room, I heard you crying out during one of your dreams. I know it was rude, but I was … curious. And wanted to help. However, at the time, I didn't know how to operate a motor vehicle. When your brother taught me, it occurred to me that this intervention might be helpful.” He glanced over at Sam, and then directed his eyes back to the road, every inch the responsible driver.

Sam’s mind reeled. What was this supposed to mean? “I’m sorry: _your room?_ Why would you have a room Cas, you don’t sleep? In fact, you don’t drive, you don’t do anything. You’re dead!” And he, Sam, was now riding beside an angel ghosts. Did angels have ghosts?

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

Cas drove in silence for a while. The rain had thinned out, down from a torrent to a light patter. “But you didn't answer my question.”

“About my dream?” Sam leaned back in the passenger seat. “Yeah, pretty much. Only … sometimes I hit Dean. Sometimes I hit you. Sometimes I hit the dog, like I did in real life. Or Bobby. Kevin. Amelia....” His voice choked.

Cas nodded but didn't reply. As the sun shown, Sam glanced out the window and noticed they'd somehow gone from a northern rainforest to a Southwestern looking desert landscape. “Are you doing this Cas?”

“I am.” Sam got the side glance again. Cas looked serious. “Sam. This is very important and we may not have much time. You are being held prisoner right now. By a group of angels. I need to know if there's anything – anything – that you can tell me about where you are being held.”

Sam stared at Cas in disbelief. “When did I get myself captured by angels? Did this happen after we ganked Dick? What the hell?”

“Sam, do you remember anything after … this incident? Hitting the dog?”

“I remember meeting Amelia.... She wasn't impressed. I'm not sure why I dream about her. Sometimes.” He frowned at Cas. “You're dead. My brother is dead. Everybody is dead.”

“No, Sam. Dean and I were in Purgatory.”

“Purgatory?”

“Yes. There’s no time to go into more detail. We escaped. And we are currently trying to hunt down more tablets before Crowley and the angels get to them.”

“Oh. Like Kevin's Leviathan tablet?” 

“Yes, exactly.” Cas pulled the car over to the side of the road, and they emerged, under the hot desert sun. Sam stretched. It was the first time in days he could remember being warm. “I need your help now, Sam. And you are the only one who can help me. Please. I realize you are in a bad state of mind right now-”

“You don't understand. I don't think you can understand.” Sam put a hand through his hair, noticing but not caring that he was fighting back tears. “No offense. I just don't think you can understand. When Dean was gone before – when the Trickster killed him, and then when he went to hell – I lost it, Cas. I just snapped. Looking for him, trying to get him back, it just pushed me into a terrible, terrible place. I set off the apocalypse, Cas! The freaking apocalypse. 

“And this time they’re all gone. _You’re_ gone. Bobby is gone. My mom and dad. Everybody. I just didn't wanna become … that guy again. I don’t wanna hurt anybody this time. I’m running away. But I think I’m running away from myself. So I'll go. I'll go and I'll drive and I'll drive and I'll drive.”

“I know how you feel, Sam. I feel very … lost now, myself. Sometimes.”

Sam struggled to let his mind catch up. What Cas was telling him seemed familiar. But he suddenly realized there was something off about the angel. “Did something happen to Dean?”

A look of pain washed across Cas's features, and then was gone. “Dean is safe. Your brother is safe, with me. He was … injured. But he'll get better. I promise.”

Sam looked pale. “Dean is hurt?”

“Dean is _recovering_. Sam. We had a confrontation with the angels. Dean was injured, you were taken. I'm trying to set things right. But I need one thing from you. Please try to focus. Try to be aware of your surroundings. If you can tell me anything you think might help, meet me here. Can you remember that?”

“Meet you … here.”

“Yes. Get in the car and come here. I'll be waiting. Remember Sam. Please remember.”

 

Cas was sitting on a couch near a fireplace in Valhalla when he came back to himself. 

“How did it go?” asked Odin, who was sitting nearby.

Cas unfolded his legs from the lotus position and sighed. “Bobby Singer used to have an expression: that worked like Vietnam.”

“You talked to Sam?”

“Yes, but he was … distracted. He is trapped inside a troubling recurring dream, of his time after his brother and I were transported to Purgatory.”

“Well, we tried.”

Cas tried to shake off his misgivings. He looked towards Odin. “I assume there's no change....”

“I would have woken you up for that. But we have a visitor.” Odin nodded, and Cas got quickly to his feet to greet his guest as Odin excused himself.

Cas shook the god’s extended hand. “Bibi! I'm sorry. I haven't had a chance to speak with you, after…. I am sorry. For your loss. Yamaraja. He was a good friend.” His brain scrambled, trying to think of what a friend should say or do. 

“My uncle. He doesn't wanna be brought back,” said Bibi sadly.

Cas stood for a moment, at a loss, and then gestured for Bibi to sit down. He realized that he remained inept at sensing what was appropriate in social encounters, but guessed that his friend wanted to talk. 

Bibi seated himself on one of the couches next to the fireplace. “He made out a will. Yamaraja did. We read it, and he said his soul had grown weary of the constant cycle of death and rebirth.”

Cas nodded, stunned that he had guessed right on what social gesture was called for. He forced himself to pay attention to Bibi's words. “I understand. Yes.” He nodded, remembering his own painful experiences with resurrection. “That kind of thing … it grows tiring.”

“He said he wants _me_ to take over charge of Naraka, Cas.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, surprised. “You will be the King of Hell?” He thought it over. “Yes. You are the logical choice for that.”

“I am bloody scared shitless! To take that on? At this time?”

“Yamaraja was a good man, and a wise one. He made a good decision.” 

“Wish I had your confidence about this one.” 

A thought struck Cas. “You are going to marry Ruth? How is she…?”

“Oh, Ruthie is glorying in it!” said Bibi, a slight smile now tracing his features. “She’ll be a right queen of hell.” He was silent for a moment. “So, how's Dean? Any change?”

“He is the same.”

“I'm sorry.” Bibi leaned forward, his voice low. “Seriously, mate, I had no idea Odin and Metatron and them had him in mind to join the pantheon.”

Cas shrugged. “Me neither, to be honest. But I am currently more concerned with Sam. I found him, in his dream.”

Bibi blinked at Cas. “You can dream walk? Man, that's a fantastic power.”

“It's an angelic ability.” Almost without his bidding, his worries began to pour out. “I believe they have him trapped him in some kind of recurring dream cycle. They may mean to break him. His sanity.” Cas cringed at his own words, remembering with a shudder his own treatment at Naomi’s hands. 

“What the hell? Angels are wankers. No offense.”

“None taken. I have an idea, but I may need your help. I have been putting a lot of effort of late into studying Crowley. His condition.”

“His condition?” That merited a grin. “Did Namtar zap him with plague or something?”

“Namtar has been doing nothing but watching of late,” Cas confessed. “If I can tempt Crowley into another meeting, I believe we can exploit it.”

Bibi smiled. “Screwing with that mad bugger Crowley? I’m in.”

 

Dean awoke, not completely certain where he was.

He sat up, regarding his hands with astonishment. How had he never noticed them before? They were … stunning. He held one up to the light, gazing at the fine musculature, the delicate tendons, the fragile bones. He was suddenly aware of each particular molecule in the elegantly folded proteins, all of the efficient enzymes, the long, twisted strands of DNA.

He sat up, putting his bare feet to the cold stone floor, amazed at the signals firing up his neurons. He stood and stretched. 

Sunlight streamed into the window, the photons scattering on the walls. He pulled in a breath, pleased by the exchange of oxygen with carbon dioxide across his thin alveolar membranes.

He looked up.

 

She brought in a tray filled with lunch into the room formerly occupied by the angel. The human was there now. Not that he was likely to be awake. He was probably still dozing, or unconscious, or whatever state he was in. She would leave the tray, and then pick it up again in an hour. It would probably remain untouched, but they wanted someone checking on him more than anything.

She was surprised, therefore, to see that the bed was no longer occupied. The cover was all bunched up, but there was nobody in there. She looked around, now mildly curious. There didn't seem to be anybody in the room. But she was sure she had heard something creaking.

There was a groan, and suddenly, a face appeared, inches from her own.

“Hello.”

The tray crashed as it dropped to the floor, and she fled the room.

 

“Inias?”

Cas had just appeared in the middle of a diner in Clark Fork, Montana.

“Castiel!” said Inias, throwing back his hoodie.

Suddenly the middle-aged waitress who had been standing nearby lunged for Cas, her angel blade glinting against the neon lights. She found herself pinned and disarmed by Bibi.

“Hello, Meg,” said Cas, turning to look at her.

“You know this demon?” asked Bibi.

“We've met,” said Cas, tilting his head.

“We've shared spit!” grumbled Meg.

“I'm sorry, Castiel,” said Inias. “Really, really sorry.”

Cas waved a hand at Inias. “No need. Meg can be … protective. So this is your new cause, Meg?” He gestured, and Bibi let her go, although, much to her annoyance, he kept the angel blade. 

“Slim Shady here helped me escape Crowley. But got my meatsuit blown up in the process.”

Cas smiled. “That must have been harrowing.”

“And he won't let me grab a decent looking one.” Looking very annoyed she pulled at the waitress's apron.

“I take it you've met Vibhishana?” Cas asked Inias.

“Yes, Bibi-”

“My friends call me Bibi. You can call me Vibhishana,” grumbled Bibi, casually picking at a fingernail with the angel blade. “So you're working for Crowley now?”

“No. Not at all,” said Inias, putting up his hands. “Please let me explain. I went to Hell some time back. I was looking for a friend. Another angel. Rumor has it that Crowley is holding him. And ... torturing him. I didn't find him, but I did find Meg. And, well, she can be very persuasive.”

Cas stared at his brother. “Crowley is holding an angel? That's strange. I heard the same story from Naomi. I thought she was lying.”

“You've encountered Naomi?” asked Inias, his eyes wide.

“I've heard she's quite a bitch,” said Meg, who appeared to approve the whole thing.

“Yes, you would find much to admire about her, Meg,” Cas told her. He shook his head. “I escaped from Naomi. But I don't have time to explain now, unfortunately. I came here today because I need your help, Inias.”

“You need _my_ help,” breathed Inias.

“Oh, quit acting like a starstruck little girl,” sassed Meg. 

Inias, who seemed quite expressive for an angel, looked more than a little driven to distraction. “Meg, please-”

“Besides, he's taken.” Meg leaned over and, before Bibi grabbed her back, took a deep sniff of Cas. “Boy is he taken! You even smell like a Winchester.”

“Thank you,” said Cas, which only made Meg glower. 

“You've- You've taken a mortal lover, Castiel?” asked Inias.

“Of course, hasn't everybody?” asked Bibi. “It's the new black, mate.”

Cas, who didn't understand the reference, smiled anyway. “Inias. Dean said that you uncovered the Ghost Tablet.” 

“We did,” said Inias, as he and Meg exchanged a glance. “We have, or rather, Crowley has an object.”

“Eh. One of the tchotchkes he had lying around from his crossroads days,” said Meg. 

It was Cas and Bibi's turn to exchange a glance. “So, he has located the tablets?” asked Cas with some alarm.

Meg smirked. “Calm yourself, Clarence. Not unless the guy has wised up. Which I doubt will happen any time this century. He has it, but he and his bozos have no clue what it does.”

“So, we need to get inside Crowley's headquarters,” said Cas. Bibi nodded grimly.

“We will help you. In any way. Of course,” said Inias.

“What? Am I the only one in this room in possession of brains?” asked Meg. “Crowley will turn you boys into feather dusters.”

“You're still afraid of Crowley, Meg?” asked Cas.

Meg huffed and suddenly seemed to get very interested in something on the floor. “What? No, of course not. He's an annoying little Scots dirtbag who's got too big for his kilt.”

“Then you'll help?”

“What's in it for me, Mr. Eagle Scout?” asked Meg, hooking a thumb at herself.

Cas considered. “What if I said I could get your, uh, _vessel_ back?”

Meg leaned over towards Cas again, staring at him. “You don't have the mojo to do that.”

Cas raised his eyebrows. “ _I_ don't....” 

Meg wrinkled the elderly waitress's brow. “All right. I'm in. But I want my angel sword back.”

“When we complete the mission,” said Cas.

“Fucker,” said Meg. She cocked a hip. “Tell me, I get in my good meatsuit, do I stand a chance?”

Cas smiled, and there was an actual warmth to it. “You never had a 'chance.' Dean is my one true love.”

Meg glowered. “God damn, he's a fucking fairy princess.”

“Meg,” said Inias with no little irritation. “I think you've occupied that vessel long enough now.”

“Yeah, my varicose veins are acting up anyway.” Meg threw her head back and belched black smoke. 

Inias opened the clasp on a small locket he wore, and, as the waitress sunk to her knees, the smoke congealed inside. He shut the locket and went to check the pulse on the unconscious waitress. “Another of Crowley's treasures,” he told Bibi and Cas, tapping the locket.

“Seems a good place for that one,” grumbled Bibi.

“We'll be in touch,” said Cas. He nodded and in a wingbeat, he and Bibi were returned to Valhalla.

“So, let me get this straight, Cas,” said Bibi as they stood by the fireside in the same sitting room they had left a few minutes earlier. “You got both that demon girl and that angel to fancy you?”

Cas blushed. “It's.... Well.... Yes. I suppose?”

“And Dean?”

The pink cheeks turned crimson. “Crowley said … I have 'sex appeal.'” 

“Crowley too? You are something,” grinned Bibi, patting Cas on the shoulder. 

“Cas! You're back!” said Odin, who had just rushed into the room.

“What is it?”

 

“Dean, you need to come down from there. Right. Now.”

“Why?” asked Dean, who was now swinging from the light fixture by his knees while chomping on the bacon burger the servant had dropped. He seemed rather adept at this whole eating upside-down business.

“Because.… Because I said so,” Cas told him.

“You gave my servant a fright,” urged Odin. “So, why not come down and be friendly?”

Dean jammed the burger into his face and hopped down, cat-like, his feet landing right in front of Cas. He took the burger from his mouth, and then leaned over and took a long sniff of the angel. “You smell familiar.”

“I'm Cas. Castiel. And how can you smell anything over that bacon cheeseburger?”

“With mushrooms,” Dean commented, waving the burger. “But you didn't know that. Did you. DID YOU?”

“This one definitely needs to go easy on the mushrooms,” muttered Odin.

Cas tried again. “Dean. I realize this is difficult. But we need you to focus. The angels have your brother in captivity. They … have ... Sam.”

“Sam? Sam? Aw! Why do I always have to take care of Sam. He can take care of himself. I wanna play video games.”

An angel appeared in the doorway.

“Lady angel!” said Dean, leaping over to where Metatron was standing and taking a deep whiff. “Pretty!”

Metatron ignored him, walking into the room right past Dean. “I should have been there.”

“Mets-”

“I should have been there, Odin.”

Odin shook his head. “It's too dangerous. If Azrael catches your scent....:

She stood, arms crossed, and watched as Dean leapt on top of the bureau and crouched there, munching on his burger. “Dangerous? We lost Yamaraja, we lost Sam Winchester, and now look at this one! He wasn't ready.”

“You picked him, Mets.”

“You did?” asked Cas, turning to face her.

Metatron stood her ground, looking at Castiel and Odin in turn. “When he was ready to bear the burden. You told me yourself he didn't even talk to his brother. Doesn't take an idiot to know what that means.”

“He told me,” said Cas softly.

Metatron's face softened. “Well, of course he did. Of course he did.”

“You had no time, and you had to make a choice, Cas,” said Odin. “And we'll figure this one out.”

“I think there is someone who might be of help. To Dean,” said Cas.

“Call him then,” said Odin.

Cas sighed as Dean hopped up to swing from the chandelier once again. “In the meantime, I think we need to move on Crowley. We need to find the angel tablet.”

 

“Are you completely certain you didn’t mean _Adam_ Winchester?” rasped the clerk, her voice the demon spawn of unfiltered cigarette smoke marinated in the cheapest rotgut whiskey.

Crowley sighed and cast an impatient glance around at the slow-moving lackeys of the Department of Manifestations and Visitations, where the records of every single incoming soul were kept, everything scratched out laboriously by quill on parchment. The lines here, as everywhere nowadays in hell under Crowley’s administration, were inconceivably long and moved at the pace of a snail struggling uphill against a windstorm. Crowley had played the “King of Hell” card and cut to the head, only to come up against the unstoppable force of Agrat Bat Mahlat, queen of the demons, and assistant vice manager of the DMV, GS level 147,666. 

Civil service demons. As it turned out, there was nothing worse in the universe.

Crowley had already smitten four or five different minions he’d sent down to interrogate her. There was another who’d gotten lost in line somewhere along the way.

“Dean Winchester,” he said for what seemed the thousandth time. “I am looking for Dean. His soul should have come in within the last few days.”

Her face disappeared into a vast sea of wrinkles as she studied the parchment before her. “Henry Winchester?”

Crowley looked heavenward. Angel wankers, he thought. “I don’t even know who that is! _Dean_ Winchester. D-E-A-N.” How many damned dead Winchesters could there possibly be, he thought.

“John Winchester?”

Oh, that tore it. “He’s not even here! He escaped! Under a, uh, previous regime,” Crowley was obliged to note. 

The much-furrowed brow was trained towards Crowley. “He has not escaped. It would have been noted.” She tapped the parchment with her quill. 

Crowley’s fury bubbled with double trouble. Up until the instant he was distracted by a cheery, “Hey, boss, it’s time for your oatmeal bath.”

“What?” demanded Crowley, turning on the demon lackey, who was also his longest surviving personal chef. His anger crested and then, oddly enough, receded. “I am feeling a little itchy,” he mused.

“Yeah. Stress will do that. Yeah.” 

Crowley spared a last glower at Agrat Bat Mahlat, who stiffly ignored him, and walked out with his chef. “You think they’d be able to locate one soul. One soul, Pierre.” The man wasn’t really named Pierre. In fact, he probably wasn’t even French. But Crowley thought that was a good name for a chef.

The two exited the sliding doors of the beige, neon-lit confines that comprised the central bureaucracy of the underworld and instead walked abreast down the refreshingly dark sulfur-scented caverns of Hell proper.

“Ah, the DMV, yeah,” said the chef who wasn’t really Pierre. “Nobody can find nothing there. Yeah. It’s always been that way. You wanna find a soul, it might as well be lost.”

Crowley had a thought. Since it was him, it was a very evil thought. 

“I just had an idea, Pierre,” he said. And he grinned.

 

The baseball sailed an impossible distance through the air, whistling up, way up high, up over where Cas and Ninazu sat at a picnic table, quietly coloring in the young god's book. A wolf sitting at their feet looked mournfully upwards, while its brother galloped along, following the ball's path.

“I got it! I got it!” hollered Namtar, who had to run back what looked like a good half mile to catch Benny's impossible throw. “I got it!” he yelled happily as, indeed, and to the trailing wolf's utter disappointment, he snatched the ball out of the air. “Catch, Dean!” he yelled as he wound up and threw another, equally ridiculously long pitch.

“Damn, this is the most fun I've had in decades,” laughed Benny, sitting down at the table across from Castiel and Ninazu. The vampire rubbed his shoulder, winding his arm around as if making a slow pitch. “Can't remember the last damn time I threw a ball around. I mean, _really_ threw a ball around. I always have to hold back, since I was changed, so folk won't think there's something funny going on.”

“Thank you for coming up here, Benny,” said Cas stiffly.

“My pleasure, man.”

“Dean is having problems … adjusting.”

Benny chuckled. “What we been through, Cas? Lucky we all ain't all gone batshit royale with cheese.”

Cas nodded. 

“You might think of taking the angel stick out of your ass and tossing the ball around with us,” said Benny. 

Can wrinkled his nose. “I am … coloring. With Ninazu.”

“Son of a bitch!” Dean growled from very, very far off as the throw eluded him, sparking the wolf to go chasing into the woods after it. 

“I want a dog!” yelled Namtar, who really didn't need to yell, as he had just plopped down on top of the picnic table.

“Well, why don't you ask your mom and papa?” asked Benny.

Namtar rolled his eyes. “We've asked and asked and asked. No animals of any kind where we live.”

Benny nodded. “Yeah, kid, your neighborhood … kind of sucks.”

“It totally sucks! There's nothing but rocks and feathers.”

“Well, then it's lucky you can come up here and visit with your Uncle Cas.”

Cas turned towards Benny, his eyes wide. “I am not a biological relative to these children,” he told Benny seriously.

Benny grinned. “Naw, it's what you call adults you like.”

“Oh.” Cas looked down at Ninazu, who enthusiastically nodded. “That reminds me. I wanted to ask about your stepfather, Namtar. Nergal-”

Namtar huffed. “Nergal just believes what I tell him. Dean's dead and we're all totally upset.” Little Ninazu gave this a nod as well.

“And Dean’s soul…?” prompted Cas.

“Got lost somewhere.”

“It was fortunate for us that you spotted your stepfather visiting Crowley,” said Cas.

“My stepdad is sort of smart. But he’s also sort of stupid sometimes,” said Namtar.

“That’s the way it is for a lot of us grownups,” laughed Benny.

“Hey, Namtar, check this out!” Dean bellowed. The ball went sailing overhead, a frenetic wolf in hot pursuit.

“You not gonna go chase the ball, pal?” asked Benny, giving the moping wolf lying under the table a good scratch. 

“That one is Freki,” said Cas. “He has developed an affection for Sam, and can't understand why he isn't around.”

“You can tell that?” asked Benny.

“Yes.” Freki rested his chin on Cas's thigh and looked up, wolf eyes great pools of sadness.

“So for the rescue, you waiting for Dean to quit being … sick?” asked Benny.

“Dean is fine!” said Namtar.

Cas stared at Namtar. “What do you mean?”

“If Dean was sick, my brother would heal him.”

Cas squinted at Ninazu, who was silently coloring. “Even if he's sick....” he said, and pointed to his own head.

“Oh, yeah, he does that too. But Dean's really okay, right?” Namtar asked his brother. Ninazu nodded enthusiastically.

“Namtar! Get your godly little ass over here and throw the ball!” Dean wailed. “I'm tired of playing with the wolf! It's a freaking drool machine!”

Namtar jumped up to go play. Cas sat and stared.

“You got an idea, don't you, angel?” asked Benny. “I can see them wheels a-turning.”

Cas shook his head, as if to banish the thought. “It's probably foolish. And it will be dangerous.”

“Friend, those are always the best ideas!”

Cas sat back, running a hand through Ninazu’s hair. “We would need to test it out first, I think.”

 

She walked up and down International Highway 99, dressed in a day glo miniskirt, tube top, and some ridiculously high platform shoes. She had long blonde hair, which she whipped around with a great flourish every so often.

It was either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on your point of view. This stretch of highway was usually dotted with young women, but for some reason, there weren't very many other girls plying their trade here. Maybe it was the rumors about the man in the white van. Girls had gone off with him, and never returned. 

He seemed to like blondes.

This girl must have been new, as when a white van pulled up nearby, she sauntered right on over to it. The driver parked the van, and got out to talk with her. He was big: much bigger than she was, and burly, with huge, muscular Popeye-like forearms. They chatted for a while about services and prices.

And then suddenly, he had her by the throat. A needle flashed....

And he found himself flat on his back, gasping for breath after having been kicked in the throat.

The girl wrenched open the side door on the van. “So, this is a serial murderer Van of Doom?” she asked brightly, peering around inside. “Hey, cool.” She grabbed him by the collar and easily tossed him into the back of the van. She pulled off her wig and tossed it in the back along with him. “Itchy,” she explained, scratching her hair, which was red with the tips dyed blue. “You just sit tight, we're going for a ride!” And then she slammed the door shut, got into the driver's seat, and drove off.

 

“I don't understand where I am,” the girl stammered. She was blonde – a real blonde – and couldn't have been much more than sixteen years old.

“We're FBI,” Cas told her confidently, flashing Agent Hammett's badge. The picture didn't seem to match his face, it was of some guy with freckles, but he flashed it quickly. “Special division. I just need to you to verify that the individual we have in custody is in fact the man who kidnapped you. The one you told us you managed to escape?”

She nodded grimly, looking in wonder around Rufus's cabin. She showed a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt, probably what got her into the white van.

“Don't worry, Agent Ulrich will be at your side at every moment,” Cas assured her, indicating Bibi. The god gently took her elbow and led her down the basement steps. 

“You're sure dressed nice for an FBI guy,” the girl told Bibi.

“Oh, thank you, love. This one was custom made. I'm … very particular about my FBI uniform.”

She gasped as she spied the man tied to the chair with electrical tape seated in the dark basement. “New interrogation techniques,” Bibi muttered.

“Do not be afraid,” Cas told her. “He is unconscious now. He cannot see you.”

The girl stumbled forward, trembling, and gave the man a good once-over in the dim light. “Yes, that's him. That's definitely him.” She began to weep.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Cas, as Bibi patted her on her back. “You have been very brave. Agent Ulrich, kindly escort our witness back home.”

“What will happen to him?” she asked Cas, her eyes filled with tears.

“Don't worry,” said Cas. “We will never let him harm anybody again. Thanks to you.” 

She sniffled and nodded and, as Cas watched, Bibi escorted her back out of the basement. Cas turned and stared at the man in the chair.

“How's it going, Agent Hammett?” asked Ruth, who was suddenly standing at his side. “I want an FBI badge!” She was still dressed in her day glo miniskirt.

Cas looked at her curiously. “You received a new outfit instead,” he told her dryly. 

She grinned. “Oh, I forgot.” She snapper her fingers, and returned to her normal black outfit, although she continued to wear the blonde wig. “Hey, you know, it just might be true that blondes have more fun!”

“I wasn't aware of that truism,” said Cas. “As for our suspect,” he added, nodding at the man tied to the chair, “he is off the charts on the psychopathology checklist, although he is remarkably uncooperative as a test subject.”

“A lot of items on that inventory. I think I'd be uncooperative.”

“Be that as it may, I think we have verified he is indeed afflicted with psychopathology, and that he is guilty of committing illegal acts. Now for the next step....”

“Hey, Namtar!” said Ruth, waving up at the stairs as the two boys entered. “Hey Ninazu!” The little god ran down the stairs and jumped into Cas's arms. “Hey, you got yourself a friend,” remarked Ruth.

“Now, you see this person, Ninazu?” asked Cas. The boy nodded. “He seems to be sick.”

Ninazu nodded and wriggled out of Cas's arms.

 

The sergeant at the desk looked left and right, and then, with the touch of a finger, muted the sound on his iPhone.

Star Wars Angry Birds was just so fucking addictive.

He looked up in annoyance as the burly man appeared at his desk. He hit pause, and noticed the guy was crying his eyes out.

“All right, sir. Can you tell me what the problem is.” The burly man sniffled. “Were you mugged, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“I've done some terrible things. _Terrible things!_ ”

_Oh, great, a drunk_ , thought the sergeant. _Just what I need when I've almost got the high score._ “Yes, sir. I'm sure it's not that bad.”

“It is! It is! I've kidnapped and murdered twenty-two women!”

The sergeant set his phone down. “Um. I'm sorry?”

“I tortured and murdered young girls,” wailed the man. “They were prostitutes. I thought no one would care. But I care!” He lunged forward to grab the sergeant by the lapels. “I care!”

“Oh boy,” thought the sergeant.

 

“You guys knit me a new meatsuit just so fucking Crowley can blow it up again?”

As Benny, Cas, and Inias watched with varying levels of amusement, Meg found herself gripped by the collar and pulled downwards to face a furious archangel.

“Demon. Kindly do not. Refer to my creation. That way,” snarled Metatron. 

“Uh. Okey-doke,” said Meg, now nose to nose with Metatron. The angel kept her grip tight for a long moment, and then released the demon, sending her stumbling backwards.

“Crowley reduced your old body to atoms. I had to go flying all over the universe to reassemble it. And you know what? _I broke a nail!_ ” She thrust up her hand in Meg's face.

“Uh. Sorry?”

Metatron gave Meg one last glare and then stomped out of the room. “I'm going riding,” she grumbled.

“Boy, angel PMS or what,” muttered Meg.

“Meg,” said Inias. “This body isn't a rental, remember. It's a rare gift.”

“Oh, and I'm supposed to be all dewy-eyed that I get to be a real girl? Knock it off, Lord of the Locket.”

Inias looked over at Cas, who shrugged. “Demons.” 

“A woman should have a little spirit to her,” chortled Benny.

Meg glared. “Get back in your box, Incisors, before I sharpen my stake on your heart.”

Benny howled with laughter. “First off, wooden stakes don't work, Morticia. And second, I ain't got a heart. And thirdly, as my Mama use to say, there is spunky, and then there is just damn unpleasant.”

“What is up with Crackerbox, here?” Meg asked Cas. “You boys needed to fulfill your hayseed quota after Bobby tanked?”

“Benny is my friend,” said Cas. This got a glance and then a small smile from Benny.

Meg turned to Inias. “Something stinks here, Inias, and it isn't just Undead Burl Ives here. Why him and no Winchesters? Why aren't you hanging off your boyfriend, Cas?”

Cas smiled. “Meg, I am going to do something you probably have little experience with. I am going to tell you the truth.”

Meg looked appropriately shocked. 

“We had a confrontation with some angels. The same ones I think that Inias is fleeing from. One of our friends … was killed. They captured Sam. And Dean was injured. He is still recovering. And now I believe they are torturing Sam....”

“I- I would bet they are, Cas,” said Inias quietly. 

Cas winced. “The angels demanded we turn the angel tablet over to them. As we do not presently have it, we need to go dig it up.”

“You're not going to give it to them, are you?” asked Inias.

“Over my charred flight wings,” Cas vowed. “But I suspect they are searching for it as well. I will not forfeit Sam's life over this. We must find it, and we must find it soon.”

Meg snorted. “Yeah. Your story has touched me to the bottom of my cold, cold heart. Now, after we're done, you give me the locket of doom and my angel-smiting sword, and I'm off.”

“That's acceptable, Meg,” said Cas.

“Good, 'cause I don't want anybody getting the idea I'm signing up to join Super Friends or any crap like that.”

“We don't have that idea,” said Cas. Meg got up and sauntered out of the room, although she made no mention of going riding.

“Castiel,” said Inias. Cas turned to look at him. “You're with- You're with Dean Winchester now, correct?”

Cas looked puzzled, but Benny clapped him on his shoulder and laughed. “You wanna crack at that one? Brother, you don't know what you're in for.”

“I like … a challenge,” said Inias, who left the room to hurry after Meg.

Benny grinned. “I think she's still got a little shine on for you, Cas.”

Cas looked thoughtful. “Once, when no one wanted anything to do with me, including Dean, she watched over me. I don't want to fool myself about what she is. But I believe I do owe her a debt.” He turned to face Benny. “She has committed some terrible crimes. Against my friends.”

“We've all got blood on our hands. For some of us that's pretty damn literal. Looking back, I probably deserved to have my ass chucked into Purgatory.”

“I deserved to be there,” said Cas. “I probably shouldn't be here now.”

Benny laughed. Cas gazed at him. “And what the hell is Dean supposed to do? It's pretty clear you're the one for the dumb son of a bitch.”

“He deserves better. A human. And, what was it? A fence composed of wooden slats?”

“White picket fence? That what he wants?”

“It's what _Sam_ wants.”

“Yeah, his brother. What does Dean want?”

Cas looked at Benny, and then looked away. “We need to prepare for the meeting with Crowley.”

 

Sam blinked.

After Cas’s visit, he had gone back to the dream about driving the car, but he had somehow managed to calm himself down. And the memories had come back, though slowly at first. Somehow, Dean was back from Purgatory, and he would get Sam out. 

He had been unable to find Cas’s desert location, so instead, when he had a mind to, he pulled over by the side of the road to look at the stars for a little while.

Sam definitely didn’t remember getting out of the car and into this room, however. It looked like a dentist’s waiting room or something. Only there were no People magazines. He sat down in one of the chairs and looked around.

There was a rush of wingbeats, and suddenly a buttoned down woman was sitting behind the desk across from him.

“Oh, good,” said Sam. “You need to restock your magazines.”

“I’m sorry?” she asked. She folded her hands, gripping them together. Sam, who had interrogated hundreds of witnesses, was no slouch at picking up on body language, even of the “emotionless” angelic sort. She hadn’t even really said anything, and she was already lying. 

Sam realized he had two options, either chill out and play along, or go poke things with a stick.

Sam was a great stick-poker.

“Naomi, right? So, am I still dreaming, or is this real?”

She shifted her features to a sort of Pan Am smile: one that got nowhere near her eyes. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Meaning it does,” said Sam.

This merited a micro-expression. It was a tiny reaction, just the movement of a few small muscles, but Sam had seen it. 

And then the forehead smoothed out again. “Sam. We need your help.”

“Cool. I’ll give you my cell phone number.” Sam stood up, as if he intended to leave.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Naomi, an undercurrent of menace behind the blinding smile.

“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t, but you’re an angel, and I’m not,” said Sam, who found himself smacked down into the chair. “Look, Naomi, that’s rude. Tell your boss, I'm not impressed.” 

He got a tiny brow wrinkle this time. She probably didn't want to mention the guy pulling the strings. Interesting. “Sam, I don’t think you understand. We have a very dangerous situation.”

“You have no idea,” grinned Sam, leaning forward. “See, you’ve kidnapped me, meaning you’ve pissed off the one guy in the universe that you don’t wanna piss of, my brother, Dean.”

It wasn’t just a micro-expression this time. Yeah, this chick was nervous. 

“Look, Naomi. Who’s behind the one way glass? And, why is he too chickenshit to come out and talk to me himself?”

There was a flash. Sam hid his eyes, and then looked around.

He was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala.

He shrugged, got out and checked the trunk.

There was beer. Good. Sam popped the top and leaned back, staring at the stars. “Sam 1: Angels 0,” he muttered, sipping his beer.

 

“Is there just a vast holding room somewhere crowded with unkempt angel boytoys?”

Cas and Inias exchanged a glance. Cas shrugged. “I never understand half of the things Crowley says. It was probably intended as some kind of insult.”

Inias regarded the crossroads demon and self-proclaimed King of Hell with frank curiosity. Then he looked back at Cas. “He would insult angels?”

“I believe it speaks to a kind of insecurity.”

“Insecurity? Isn't that sort of shotgun psychology?” asked Inias.

“He is genuinely obsessed with his supposed sexual prowess,” Cas told him.

Inias turned to give Crowley another once-over.

“Damn you, Sparkles. I will not stand her and be insulted by an angel boy band.”

“I agree,” pouted Meg, who stood between Cas and Inias. “Can we get this over with?”

Crowley glared at Meg. “You, sunshine, are not gonna have it over with any time soon.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you'll tie me up with my intestines and flay my skin. You know, you might have taken a lesson from Alastair. At least he was creative.”

“All right, much as I hate to agree with the Queen of Deadpan, can we get this over with?” Crowley barked. “I assume you and Justin Timberlake here want Dean Winchester's immortal soul as part of the deal.”

Inias started to reply but instead winced when Cas stomped on his foot. “Why would I want Dean’s soul?”

“Because it’s missing, you ingrate. Don’t pretend with me. That’s why you called this meeting.”

“That is a supposition,” said Cas. “But I had something bigger in mind.”

“What? So soon to abandon your human pet? Have you gone mad … again, Castiel? In which case you could have at least brought more honey.”

“Did you like it?” asked Cas, a smile edging at his lips.

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. I'm a tea drinker. What of it? GET TO THE POINT.”

“We want the angel tablet.”

“Yes, so do I. And when I inevitably get it, I will rejoice in sewing your wings together with catgut. But I don't have it.”

“No. But you have an artifact that will lead us to it.”

Crowley scowled at Castiel. “So, that's what you have in mind? Much as I enjoy the idea of melting away this one's insides,” he said, indicating Meg, “this doesn't seem like a fair deal.”

“There isn't any deal. You will give us the artifact.”

“I knew it. Last time I deal with a shifty seraph. You realize I have this place surrounded by my demons?”

Cas opened up his trench coat to reveal a small, winged child clinging to his side.

“What the hell, Cas? Are you budding off cherubs now?”

“Ninazu,” said Cas. “Heal him.” The boy literally flew towards Crowley, all sticky little hands.

“What? Wait! NO!” Crowley shrieked, and sunk to his knees at the toddler glommed onto him.

Meg snorted. “Crowley? Has a girlie scream? That, boys, was well worth waiting for.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 14 of 16  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we gallivant off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you freak over that, have you considered biofeedback.  
 **Word Count:** 100,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows, because isn't there always?  
 **Notes:** This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from whatever the heck they think they're doing on the show.

 

“Have I told you recently how much I hate you?” asked Crowley.

“Five minutes ago, I think,” Cas told him.

Meg and Inias had been bustling around, asking for (or in one party's case, demanding) various ingredients from Crowley's hellish hoard while Crowley, Cas and Ninazu waited in Crowley’s demonic equivalent of a conference room. Which, to be honest, greatly resembled an earthly conference room, but for the detail that the terrible, acid-tinged coffee was perpetually cold. This was, after all, hell, and there were ways things were done.

“What did you do to me?” demanded Crowley, sipping his tepid coffee and poking miserably at the magical tablet-locating disc situated in the middle of the table.

Cas indicated Ninazu, who was contentedly sitting in his lap applying crayons to an Adventure Time coloring book Ruth had bought him. Ninazu liked Jake the Dog. “I did nothing,” Cas explained. “The boy has a very finely developed healing power. Much less crude than the one we angels employ.”

“You _healed_ me? Why do I feel like shit warmed over?” Crowley put two fingers to the disc and gave it a spin, withdrawing his hand quickly when this produced not only a rotation but a sudden shower of colorful sparks.

Cas halted the incipient conflagration with a flick of his fingers. “An essential characteristic of sociopathy is the non-development of a suite of autonomic nervous system reactions, what we would call a conscience. Ninazu has repaired your faulty wiring, so now, for the first time in your overly long life, you will experience the consequences of your actions. The effect should feel dramatic at first.”

“Dramatic! You imbecile.” Crowley cradled his head in his hands. He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Did that upset you? Being called an imbecile?”

Cas looked Crowley up and down. “Coming from you? Not overly.”

“I hate you.”

“Yes, you've told me that.”

“And I hate the kid too.” As if unbidden, Crowley’s hand slapped over his mouth. “Is that going to cause long-term consequences to his emotional health?”

“Crowley,” huffed Meg, stumbling into the room with Inias hefting a basket of some sort of pungent-smelling herb, “you gonna get off your fat ass and help?”

“That's a hurtful comment! Don't you know that your offhand remarks can have consequences?” The demon king nevertheless hopped off his chair and went trailing after Inias. Meg continued to hover by the doorway, a sort of sense of expectation around her.

“Meg,” said Cas, who has just pulled out his buzzing cell phone. Cell service in hell was a little spotty. “I thought you weren't gonna hang around?”

“I'm just helping Inias. You angel guys are pretty hapless.” She rolled her eyes, “Pretty, but hapless.”

“That we are,” said Cas, though he didn’t indicate which part of her statement he agreed with. He sent a text message and glanced down at Ninazu. “We gotta go.”

Meg pursed her lips, her posture all studied casualness. “Oh. Uh. You gonna be back?”

The edge of Cas's mouth twitched up as he let his head droop slightly to the side. “Would it disappoint you if I didn't return?”

“No.”

Cas gave her an arched eyebrow. “I'll be back here as soon as I can. Come on, Ninazu. Yes, that's a great drawing!” he told the boy.

Meg watched them disappear to the sound of wingbeats. “Okay. Maybe I’d be a little disappointed,” she huffed, and then departed.

 

“What happened?” asked Cas as he and Benny half-ran half-walked down the corridors of Valhalla.

“I got no idea, chief. They were serving him lunch, and somebody tried to feed him a salad, and he started asking where Sam was, and then he just seemed to wake the hell up. Like his marbles suddenly unjiggled themselves.”

Cas smiled. “Healthy food? That would do it.”

They turned a corner and entered Dean’s room but suddenly halted as they came face to face with the man himself.

“Cas.”

“Dean!” Cas strode forward to stand before his friend. His eager smile vanished when he picked up on Dean's terrible mood. “Dean, I can explain-”

“What … did you do to me?” rumbled Dean. It came out as a choked whisper. He was seething.

“Yeah, I'm getting that a lot today,” Cas sighed, almost to himself. He felt his heart clutch. Explaining.... Well, logic didn't work when Dean was like this. “Dean, I don't know how much you remember-”

The hunter's eyes blazed, his teeth gritted. “I remember enough. I remember _I told you_ I don't wanna do this.” It all came out as a snarl.

Cas seized Dean's shoulders. “Dean. Just listen to me-”

“No, you listen to me!” yelled Dean. He gave Cas a push back, which sent the angel flying across the room. Cas crashed into the wall, leaving a huge dent in the plaster. Dean stared in horror.

“Shit,” said Benny, grabbing the hunter by the shoulder. “Dean, settle down, man.”

“Holy fuck,” said Dean, who looked sobered. He broke away from Benny’s grip and ran across the room. “Cas! I-”

But Castiel was on him, gripping him more tightly this time. “No. You will listen to me. You were _dying_! And the angels _took your brother_. Naomi has Sam! I had to make a decision, and I probably screwed it up, like I inevitably do for anything outside of picking my lunch. But for now you need to focus and help me find Sam! God damn it!” he added as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He tore himself away from Dean to answer it. “Meg! What-?”

“Meg?” asked Dean as Cas held up an impatient hand to him.

“Yeah, she’s a pistol,” laughed Benny.

Cas hung up the phone, shaking his head. “I need to go to hell. Now. This is urgent.” He glared at Dean. “Dean. Are you coming with me?”

Dean’s face flickered through about half a dozen different emotions. “To hell?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m going. But I’m still pissed.” Cas nodded an put two fingers to Dean’s head.

Benny found himself left all alone in the room. “You’re fucking welcome, Cas,” he yelled at no one in particular.

 

“What happened?” demanded Cas as they stormed down a corridor in one of the lowest levels of hell. He put a hand on his head. “I can feel it now. I can sense his pain.”

“Crowley's inbred demon stooges were looking for wormwood and found him locked in a storage room down on the seventh level,” said Meg.

“And someone remind me what the hell _she’s_ doing here?” barked Dean.

“She’s with me,” sighed Inias.

“Oh you wish,” snorted Meg, as angel and demon glared at each other.

“And she claims to know how the tablet-locating artifact works,” Cas told Dean.

Meg twisted her features in an expression somewhat resembling hurt. “What do you mean, Cas. I worked it before! I’m the one who found the Ghost Tablet.”

“Oh, so that’s how they did that,” said Dean.

All four of them stopped before a heavy door. “This was heavily warded against angels,” Inias explained, pointing to the scratched out sigils painted by the door. “I couldn’t see into it until we actually opened it up.” 

Inias unlocked the door, and Cas let out a gasp as they peered into the darkened room. He ran to the badly injured angel’s side. “Samandriel!” 

“We didn’t want to move him,” Inias whispered as he followed Cas.

Cas touched Samandriel’s forehead. “It’s angel blade wounds. I can’t heal him.”

“Alfie?” asked Dean, who also moved forward, cringing at the sight as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The Wiener Hut kid was barely recognizable: a bloody mess.

“Wait, you know him?” asked Cas.

“We talked about this, Cas. We met him at the auction, and he asked how you were. He told us the angels were looking for you.”

Cas’s eyes blazed. “Looking for me to use me.”

“That’s not true, Castiel,” said Inias. “Some of us have been seeking your leadership.”

Meg grinned. “They want someone to lead ‘em over the cliff, and you’re chief lemming.”

“That is just a folk legend,” Cas told her crisply as he examined Samandriel’s wounds.

“What? You mean Walt Disney lied to me? My black heart is broken.”

Inias turned on Meg, his teeth gritted. “Meg, why don’t you go work on preparing the artifact? Because otherwise, I think I am going to fucking smite your annoying bitch ass.”

“Okay, okay, don’t go all flaming sword on me, baby,” grumbled a somewhat surprised Meg as she slouched off.

“You can do many things, but you do not insult Mr. Disney’s memory!” Inias raved after her.

Just then, Samandriel emitted a very small moan. 

“Samandriel. Can you talk?” asked Cas.

“Castiel,” whispered Samandriel. He reached out to touch Cas’s face. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me.”

“I’m so glad … I lived this long.”

“Alfie, you’re gonna be fine, dude,” Dean assured him. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“Alfie?” asked Cas. Dean pointed to the nametag, still visible on the blood-stained Wiener Hut uniform. “Oh.”

“Can’t we get him to Ninazu so he can do his healing thing?” Dean asked.

“These wounds were made with an angel blade, Dean,” said Cas, who quietly shook his head. 

“They have injured his grace,” whispered Inias.

Cas nodded and murmured sadly, “It would be beyond Ninazu’s abilities.” Cas turned back towards Samandriel, placing a hand on his face. “Samandriel. Can you tell us what happened?”

“They asked me to find you.”

“Who is 'they?'” asked Cas.

“Naomi. She said someone … high up wanted to find you.”

“Who?” asked Dean. “Who wanted to find Cas?”

“I never asked. I followed my orders. When I found Dean … I told them … Purgatory.”

“And then what?” asked Cas.

“Crowley took me! I don’t know how he managed to elude the angels. And…. Something is wrong with my powers. I couldn’t get free. I failed you….”

Cas's voice was quiet but strong. “Samandriel. Look at me. You did not fail me. It was Naomi.”

Samandriel was silent for a moment. “What?”

“Naomi and whoever she’s working for. They did it to me. They put some kind of bond into my grace.” Cas held a hand to his chest. “They did the same to you.”

“They don’t want free will up there, Samandriel,” Inias told him. “They want to prevent us from uniting behind Castiel! And gaining our freedom!” Cas desperately tried to shush Inias, who ignored him.

Samandriel reached out a trembling hand and Cas grasped it. “I’m so grateful. For everything.”

“Samandriel-“ Cas lowered his eyes and gulped as the angel slipped away once again into unconsciousness.

The overhead lights suddenly fizzled and died. There was the sharp report of heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor, and the sound of a few surprised cries, and then the door blasted open, slamming against the wall with a crack that made everybody jump.

“Metatron,” whispered Cas as the archangel appeared at the threshold. There was a weird bluish glow around her.

Inias jumped away from Samandriel and backpedaled wildly. “Metatron?” The hairs on Dean’s arms were standing on end: once again, her presence seemed too large for the confined space.

Metatron stomped into the room and stood next to the unconscious Samandriel, resting a hand on his forehead. “I heard my brother crying out in pain.” She turned to Cas. “Who. Did. This?”

“Metatron,” said Cas, holding up a hand. “Wait.”

“Who did this, Castiel? Who did this to our brother?”

“The demons tortured him, but we think-“

“What the bloody blazes is going on?” hollered Crowley, who had chosen a very bad time to happen by. “Oh shit, archangel!” he cried just as Metatron seized him by the collar. Although she was some inches shorter than he, she lifted the demon king from his feet as if he was nothing but a child's toy.

“It’s smiting time,” smiled Dean as Inias cowered next to him.

“You will die for this, demon,” said Metatron as the room began to vibrate with her wrath. The archangel radiated righteous fury. 

“Yeah, I got that,” rasped Crowley.

“Metatron,” shouted Cas. “Stop it. Now!”

“Did Castiel just … yell at Metatron?” Inias whispered to Dean.

“He’s one brave little motherfucker,” said Dean, who was now grinning from ear to ear.

Cas was still standing nose to nose with Metatron, crowding her space. “The angels gave him over to the demon, Metatron. It was the angels.”

“What?” Metatron dropped Crowley, who fell on his ass, crying out in pain. 

“That’s gonna leave a bruise. All rightie, if you don’t need me any further.” On his hands and knees, Crowley began to slither away.

“Do not move!” Metatron snapped, and Crowley froze.

“Samandriel is loyal to me,” said Cas, sounding as if he himself could not believe it. “After he helped lead the angels to me in Purgatory, they handed him over to Crowley. They must have bound him, the same way they bound me. He said he was unable to escape.”

Metatron flicked her eyes to Crowley, and then stared, as if noticing him for the first time. “What have you done to this demon?”

Cas smiled, and puffed with pride. “We have grown him a conscience.” Metatron nodded her approval.

Just then, Odin showed up, looking frantic. “Mets! What the hell are you doing off the reservation? He can sense you now!”

“Azrael? Let him come,” grumbled Metatron. 

“Azrael?” Inias asked Dean.

“Shit just got real, dude,” Dean told the angel.

“Great Neil Diamond's bones, now you’re consorting with angels and pagans, Winchester?” piped up Crowley, who was still sitting on the floor. He stared at Dean. “And what the bloody blazes happened to you?”

Dean reached down and grasped Crowley by the collar, hauling him up off his feet. “Got an upgrade,” he muttered.

“Confine this demon here. In this room,” ordered Metatron. Inias had picked up Samandriel and now cradled him in his arms. Dean obligingly tossed Crowley over more or less in the direction of the bloodstained chair where Samandriel had been lying.

“Ow, my ribs,” said Crowley. “This is not a red letter day.” 

“We can bring the boy up to Valhalla,” said Odin. “We can't heal these wounds, but maybe, if we let him rest....”

“Time and patience worked for me,” said Cas. “At least he will be out of reach of the angels.” And then Inias, Metatron, Odin, and Samandriel vanished to a beat of wings.

“You’re not going to just leave me in here, are you?” asked Crowley. “I could be of help.”

“Let us cool off first,” said Cas as he stormed out of the room.

“Should only take a few centuries,” said Dean, slamming and locking the door behind him. He looked over at Cas. “I’m still mad at you, by the way.”

“Noted,” sighed Cas, pushing hair out of his eyes in a very human-like gesture.

Dean suddenly slammed Cas against up against the wall. “I am also really, really hot. Sassing a fucking archangel? Damn.”

“Um, yes, Dean,” said a very surprised Cas, as Dean leaned in to kiss him passionately. He relaxed and kissed back and let out a small moan, too completely surprised and confused by this sudden turnaround to do much of anything else.

“I think we need to have some angry sex,” Dean muttered as he chewed on Cas’s lower lip.

“Some … what? I’m not familiar-”

“Read my fucking mind.”

“… Oh!”

 

Sam was driving along a back country road one dark (dream) night when he came upon it. 

“Creepy mansion of creepy. Okay.” Sam noticed there was light in the windows. Having nothing better to do, he parked the Impala and walked up to the front door. Hey, maybe they would have hot chocolate. Or Scotch. Or something. Truth be told (and he would never tell Dean, once he had returned) he was getting a little tired of beer, which seemed to be the only thing the dream Impala’s trunk stocked, besides the perpetually half-filled water bottles.

To Sam’s utter lack of surprise, a uniformed servant opened the door and beckoned him inside. It looked like Sam had stepped back in time, perhaps to the nineteenth century, he thought. The unspeaking servant, whose face was clouded in shadows, led him to a well-furnished interior room. And there, sitting on one of the couches, was….

_What the fuck_ , thought Sam.

The figure rose. He was a slim man, and like most men, not as tall as Sam. He too was dressed in period costume. He had wavy brown shoulder-length hair, pale skin, and his eyes were hidden behind smoked glasses.

“Sam Winchester,” he said, extending a hand. “I suppose you know who I am?”

“Azrael?” guessed Sam. The man’s handshake was firm. 

The archangel nodded. He indicated that Sam should take a seat. “And I suppose then that you will also guess that I have allowed you to create my appearance here.”

“This is still my dream?” asked Sam.

“Correct,” said Azrael, who sat down opposite. He regarded Sam for a moment, and then asked, “May I inquire then whose countenance you have taken for me? I am not familiar with this character.”

“Uh, dude, you’re Dracula,” said Sam.

“Oh, really?” asked Azrael, regarding his own hand. “Lugosi’s portrayal perhaps?”

“Uh, no, Gary Oldman actually. From the Coppola version.”

Azrael tilted his head, looking somewhat like Cas when he was bemused. “You are a fan of horror films, Sam?”

“Not really, but there was this girl….” He smiled fondly, remembering his first junior high romance, which had been attenuated, as were so many things in his life, when his father once again uprooted the family. She had been cute as a button, lots of curly chestnut hair and bright blue eyes, and Sam had ended up suffering through a vampire movie for the reward of draping an arm over her pretty shoulders when, after insisting that she was a horror movie fan, she cringed at every creak and whine on the screen. 

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Azrael. Sam noticed that a silent servant had appeared. 

“Uh. Hot chocolate?” asked Sam. Much as he would have liked a drink, Sam didn’t think it would be wise to get toasted in the presence of an unpredictable archangel. Even though this dude appeared awfully mellow so far, Sam had had far too much experience with the quirks of heaven’s high born. And whipped cream was never bad. And maybe little sprinkles? This looked like a classy sort of joint. Sam sat back on the plush couch.

Azrael nodded and the servant disappeared. Literally. Exactly like they didn’t do in horror movies. So Azrael was letting Sam take the lead in this universe, but it looked like his understanding wasn’t complete. That was something to note and file away. “So, not that I don’t wanna seem ungrateful for the hospitality and all…” Sam began.

“You would like to know what this is all about,” said Azrael, pressing his fingertips together. “I am simply attempting to take back that which is mine.”

“Oh. Um. You mean the tablets?”

“Death.”

Sam’s eyes widened. Well, that was a twist. “Uh. Come again?”

“Our Father was victorious over Death, and I am the manifestation of that victory.”

Sam frowned, remembering back only a few weeks ago when Cas had made a snarky remark about this situation. “And, what does Death make of all of this?”

The room rippled. It was just a little bit, but Azrael was obviously displeased. “That entity is obviously in defiance of God’s plan.”

Sam stopped to consider his options. When a crazed super-being started spelling out their plans for world domination, he thought, the general rule was to let them continue with the monologue. Sam decided some gentle prodding was in order. “No offense, but didn’t your dad sort of skip out a couple of apocalypses ago?”

“That does not give license to defy Him.”

The servant appeared again, handing Sam a somewhat anachronistic Styrofoam cup. Sam squinted at the brown liquid within. Contrary to his expectations, it was quite obviously powdered instant cocoa, with those little dehydrated marshmallows.

“Is the beverage not to your standards, Sam?” asked Azrael. 

Sam realized with some discomfort that he must have let his disappointment show. “Oh, uh, no. Not quite what I was expecting, but this is fine.” He took a sip of the tepid, watery liquid and tried not to cringe.

“It is lacking?”

“It’s fine.”

Azrael was suddenly holding the servant by the collar. “Would you like me to smite him, Sam?” The servant looked pleadingly at Sam, obviously terrified. So they were real people. Or real angels perhaps?

“Nah, I’m good,” said Sam, waving his hand casually and continuing sipping at the cocoa. As Azrael released the terrified servant, Sam’s eyes drifted about the room looking for a distraction that didn’t involve smiting. “Oh, hey,” he said, eyeing an antique-looking chess set spread out on a table. “Do you play?”

 

Cas lay across the bed, regarding the blankets and clothing scattered around the room. He contemplated the phenomenon of “angry sex” with his now pagan god lover, and idly wondered if his vessel would ever manage to walk again.

Dean emerged, humming, from the bathroom, toweling at his dripping wet hair. “So Meg claims she can hunt down the angel tablet?”

“They can locate _a_ tablet. There is no telling, however, which one.”

“Always read the fine print,” grumbled Dean, who sat down next to Cas and then playfully slapped his bare ass.

“Hey,” said Cas.

“Does that actually hurt now?”

“Yes!” said Cas, rubbing his injured body part.

“I’m still angry,” Dean noted, leaning over to give Cas a kiss. 

“Noted.”

“Hey, you know how you zapped us back here?” Dean was cheerfully pulling on his jeans, his former anger and passion seemingly curtailed by his recent exertions.

“Well,” said Cas, rolling over and searching for his own clothing, “I was unwilling to consummate in Crowley’s headquarters, yes.”

“Can I do that now?”

Cas had picked up his shirt and was contemplating the damage. “I really don’t know.” The badly torn garment looked more like a rag than an article of clothing. 

Dean chuckled at his handiwork. “I might have gotten a little impatient there. You can fix that, right?”

“I don’t know that I’d want to,” said Cas, tossing the erstwhile shirt aside and continuing to scrounge for his pants. 

“So, while I was out, you managed to convince Crowley I was dead?” asked Dean as he pulled on a T shirt. 

“It was Namtar who did the convincing, but yes,” Cas admitted. “I think that was the element that led him to agree to a meeting. And then Ninazu healed him.”

“That was a pretty sneaky plan. I mean, considering I was out of action. And I’m your best sneaker.”

“You are sneaky, Dean,” said Cas, pleased to find that his boxer shorts, which had somehow gotten flung over a lampshade, were more or less intact. 

“That’s what you love about me!”

“I find you very appealing, Dean.”

“No.” Dean grabbed Cas, who was still half-naked, by the waist and sat down on the bed, holding Cas between his legs. He looked up at Cas, his eyes searching. “You don’t find me appealing. You _love_ me.”

Cas looked down at Dean for a moment. The hunter quite suddenly appeared very young. Cas was still disoriented and vastly confused over just about everything.

Except one thing.

“Yes. I love you Dean.”

Dean’s smile could have fired the sun. “Good. So, the tablet?” Dean let Cas go, giving his rear another stinging slap.

Cas winced. “Yes?”

“What do we do if Meg turns up the wrong tablet?”

Cas rubbed his posterior and held up his ruined pants, a wry look on his face. “What we always do.”

“Bluff like crazy?” asked Dean. “I like it!" Dean frowned. The sound of classical music was coming from nearby.

“Rachmaninov,” said Cas. “Sonata for cello and piano.”

“Cello?” said Dean, who, thought still barefoot, rushed out of the door. He ended up in a large room down the hall, where Bibi was playing a grand piano while Kevin, a picture of fierce concentration, accompanied on cello. They were both giving the composition their full attention, skillfully picking through the intricacies. Ninazu was sitting on the floor, silently coloring in his book.

Odin, who was sitting on a couch nearby, clapped enthusiastically at the end, and then said, “Dean! It’s good to see you. How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine, thanks,” said Dean, who nodded to Kevin and Bibi.

“You know,” said Kevin, “I used to hate practicing this thing.”

“I promise I won’t tell your mom you said that,” laughed Odin.

“I did too, mate,” admitted Bibi. “But women? Ooo, they love it.” He winked and played a run of something more contemporary. He started to sing, _“You are my fire, my one desire….”_

“Bibi! Dude!” shouted Dean. Bibi ceased playing and grinned mischievously over at Dean. “Since you are my friend, I am going to pretend for your sake that I never heard that!”

Bibi laughed and began to play Rhapsody in Blue instead. Kevin stretched his fingers.

“Kevin,” said Dean, who went over to the boy and grabbed at his wrist. “What the hell?” Kevin’s hand was intact.

“They found his finger when they were digging through Crowley’s hoard,” said Cas, who, having evidently given up on finding an intact shirt, entered the room still buttoning a pair of jeans that were obviously not his. 

“He kept the finger?” asked Dean. “Ewwww!”

“He’s a creep,” said Kevin.

“I asked Ninazu to reattach it,” Cas explained. Ninazu had barreled over to the angel, and was gesturing to be picked up. Cas sat down on the couch and the boy climbed up beside him to display his coloring book.

“Yeah, the little kid is like … a little magical dude!” said Kevin, holding his hand up in wonder.

“That he is,” said Odin.

But Kevin was on a roll. “So I’m like, fuck medical school, you know? What’s the point? I think I’m gonna be a classical musician.”

Odin and Dean exchanged a terrified glance. “Okay, I am so not gonna be the one to tell Mrs. Tran this news,” said Dean.

“And Dean,” said Kevin. “I want to help.”

“Help what?”

Kevin looked determined. “I wanna help save Sam. If you need me. I know I’m pretty useless next to you guys, but I want to do what I can, and I know that everybody seems to want, you know, a prophet.”

Dean shook his head. “Kevin, we are not gonna bargain you away.”

“And besides, boy,” said Odin, “we already have someone who can read the tablets.” He indicated Metatron, who had just stepped into the room. She was wearing a riding habit, and slapping a crop against her leg in an agitated manner.

“Who is … that?” asked Kevin, who was smart enough to divine that she wasn't human.

Dean grinned. “This is Metatron, Kevin. The one and only.”

“Oh, uh, hey. I'm the prophet, Kevin,” he told her, sticking out a hand.

Metatron seemed to notice him for the first time. She stepped a bit too close for comfort and studied his face as Kevin cowered back but found himself backed up to the piano. “Prophet, huh?” she said. “Hope you're not having trouble with my handwriting.” She shook her own wrist. “Sometimes the old arm would get tired.”

“You're, uh, not what I expected,” said Kevin.

She arched an eyebrow and leaned slightly closer. “What did you expect?”

“I thought you'd be … taller?”

Benny was standing in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. And then, doffing his cap at Metatron, “Ma'am.”

“It's technically Miss,” said Metatron, who, much to Kevin's relief, now focused her laser-like intensity on Benny instead. 

He held out his hand. “Benny Lafitte. Didn't want to interrupt the concerto, but I parked my truck down in the real world in a two hour zone and I don’t wanna get towed?”

“You're a vampire,” said Metatron, taking his offered hand.

“I'll have to admit that's a fact.” They shook hands.

“You need to move that miserable excuse for a truck, Benny?” asked Dean.

“If'n I don't want to get it hauled away. Which I do not. Ain’t much, but it is all my earthlies.”

Metatron snapped her fingers without taking her eyes off Benny. “Taken care of. I haven't encountered many of the undead.”

“Oh, uh, thank you ma'am,” said Benny, who looked slightly flustered. “Miss. And I don't pretend to be a paragon of the breed.”

“We should talk. Do you ride? I was just going out to the stables.”

“Riding? You mean on a horse? Hell yes. One hell of a lot more civilized than driving around in automobiles,” said Benny. “Pardon my French.”

“Well, especially more civilized than your piece of junk,” laughed Dean.

Benny pulled a face at Dean. Metatron held out her arm and inclined her head. Benny took her arm, and they left. Leaving Odin looking more than slightly annoyed.

“He has that effect on women. Must be the accent,” Dean told Odin, who glowered and hurried after Benny and Metatron.

“Hi Odin! Bye, Odin,” said Ruth, who passed the god as she entered the room. “Well, he was in a hurry.” She cast a glance at Cas and then gushed, “Holy shit, that is epic ink! Can I see?”

Cas seemed confused for a moment, and then scooted over on the couch so Ruth could regard his wing tattoos. She reached out a hand and then asked, “Uh, is that okay?” Cas nodded, and then Ruth traced her fingers down his back. “I can’t believe they’re not real. Flaming wings! That’s so intense.”

“Thank you. I believe … that they saved my life.”

Ruth squinted. “Yeah, we talked about this. They do appear to contain an enchantment of some kind.”

“Wait, really?” asked Dean. “Because I swear we just took him to a regular tattoo parlor. No magic about it. I mean, it didn’t seem like anything skeezy was going on.”

Ruth shrugged. “Maybe because he’s an angel? Angels are weird.” She grinned a “no hard feelings grin” at Cas, and went to sit down on the piano bench next to Bibi, who was still playing as Kevin sat back down and tuned his cello.

“How were the lessons?” Bibi asked.

“What lessons?” asked Dean.

Ruth smiled widely and then babbled something in a strangely familiar language. Cas answered back, and they went back and forth for a couple of volleys. “Metatron is instructing Ruth in conversational Enochian,” Cas volunteered. “Your accent is pleasing,” he told her.

“Oh, excellent! Hey, Metatron told me a joke!” Cas cocked his head, and Ruth babbled some more, and then to Dean’s astonishment, Cas literally doubled over with laughter, his chin sinking into his chest, his shoulders trembling.

“What the hell?” said Kevin.

Cas lifted his head and tried to speak, but then couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and collapsed into giggles again.

“Only funny in Enochian,” Dean grumbled, patting Cas on his bare back. 

“Ready to go, love?” asked Bibi. “We still need to plan tables settings for the reception dinner.”

“Yeah. Hey. You wanna come with, Kevin?”

“You guys are going to Naraka?” asked Kevin.

“It’s not much, but we call it home,” grinned Ruth. “You guys could jam some more.”

“Let’s see, back with my mom in the safe house, or hell?” Kevin glared. “I’ll take hell.”

He nodded, and then Bibi, Ruth, Kevin, and Kevin’s cello all disappeared.

“Hell seems like the perfect place to plan a wedding,” Dean snarked. Cas pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket and looked as if he might smite something. “More love notes from your demon girlfriend?” asked Dean.

“Meg is not my girlfriend,” Cas retorted, with enough vehemence that Ninazu looked up from his drawing to stare. Cas looked down at Ninazu. “I am sorry,” he told Ninazu, pulling the boy into his lap. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

“Meg tends to bring that out in people,” laughed Dean.

“They are encountering more difficulties in locating a tablet. I can’t understand. Did she mislead us about this?”

“I think I know,” said Dean, sitting down beside Cas. “But tell me, is your buddy Inias still hanging around?”

Cas rolled his eyes.

“Cas, think about it. Did you wonder why Azrael needed to hijack you in order to find the tablets? He’s super powerful, right? I mean, one snap of his fingers turns you into chunky soup.” Dean snapped his fingers, and Cas cringed.

“That’s all true, Dean. I had thought that Azrael wanted access not to me, but to you and your brother. You are both very resourceful. For humans.”

“Yeah, that’s the key: we’re human,” said Dean. “Well, I was a human. Not a lot of angels go palling around with us grubby humans.”

Cas nodded. “Humans are essential to locating a tablet? But Crowley managed to locate the demon tablet.”

“The key thing is, none of us are angels. And it doesn’t sound like your Father wanted you angel dudes fucking with his tablets. Metatron says she quit because your father kept erasing her memories after she’d written one, right? And that she has no idea where he’d hidden them.”

“So you think my father intentionally hid them … from me and my brothers?”

“Yeah, he didn’t want you feathery types anywhere near them. Or at least not the angel tablet. Probably why the artifact isn’t working while Inias is busy hitting on Meg.”

“That makes sense, Dean. I’ll talk to Inias. I have also heard from Ninazu’s brother.” Ninazu turned to listen in. “Evidently, they have located where Crowley confined the Leviathan.”

“Huh. Wondered what happened to those oily bastards. So do we Borax the shit out of them?”

“I would … hold off for now, Dean. We are facing an archangel. It might be good to have this option available.”

“Wouldn’t Azrael just laugh at them? Crowley said they were pretty hapless without their leader.”

“Hapless, perhaps, but also incredibly powerful. I think that might be why my Father made the first of us so strong: he meant for them to be a match. But they are … overwhelming.” Cas shuddered. “Even to the best of us.”

Even though Dean knew damn well Cas couldn’t get cold, he put an arm over the angel’s shoulders anyway. “OK, so, we pull Inias off Meg, and maybe get Kevin or Metatron to read us some of the good parts from the old Leviathan tablet.”

Cas nodded. “We could ask Crowley as well, although his conscience is still working … in mysterious ways.”

“And then we get you a damn shirt.”

Cas looked down at himself, wearing nothing but a cast off pair of Dean’s blue jeans. “That was your fault, Dean. Also, I am growing increasingly worried about Sam. He has not contacted me.”

“Sam’s a tough kid. He’s okay.”

That got a full force head tilt. “You sound as if you know that as a fact.”

“You know, I think I actually do,” said Dean, stopping to stare at his own hand. “Some of the new creepy powers you gave me when you guys did whatever the hell you did.”

“And yes, I know, you are still angry.”

Dean let out a sigh. “You did what you had to, I guess. And all things considered, I’d rather be alive than have to do another round of Heaven Can Wait. But it’s weird. I have a whole other set of memories now: him, not me. I mean, I can remember being with Kali, and I even remember Lucifer ganking me.” He shuddered. “Though, I was kind of a prick.”

Cas looked concerned.

“But it’s not like being possessed. He’s not fighting for control. It’s just … there. It’s hard to explain. Oh, and….” Dean waved a hand. As Ninazu squealed in delight, Dean sent a set of flickering butterflies tumbling forth, green and red and gold and purple. Ninazu wriggled off Cas’s lap and went to chase them across the room. They were as insubstantial as soap bubbles: one flick of the child’s hand and they vanished. 

“I'm Harry Potter. And I don’t even need a magic wand,” said Dean.


	15. Chapter 15

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 15 of 16  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we frolic off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, though on the other hand, I solemnly promise that no one in this fic quirks and eyebrow.  
 **Word Count:** 100,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** Here it is, the penultimate chapter. Yes, I say penultimate. 

 

Sam was being a little reckless with his queen. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that Azrael intensely disliked being on the defensive. The archangel had been flustered into making a couple of mistakes. Sam could have pressed harder, but thought the best move overall would be to prolong the game. And keep Azrael talking. So he concentrated on the board and sipped bad cocoa.

“You have met those of my kind before, Sam,” said Azrael as he tried to come up with a counter-move to protect a bishop.

Sam looked sour. “Yeah, Dean and I, we’re the archangel’s best friends. Michael, and Lucifer. And Gabriel, though we didn’t know it was him-“

“You knew my brother, Gabriel?” asked Azrael, who had stopped feigning interest in his next move.

“Sure. He pretended to be the Trickster. Loki. But, you could say he was … a close acquaintance.” Sam winced. Although to his mind, Gabriel had managed to redeem himself in the end, Sam would probably never get over what the little bastard had put Dean through. But Sam had picked up an odd note in Azrael’s tone. “Uh, I suppose you regret that he’s gone?”

“He was in many ways my closest brother,” Azrael admitted. “Before he left.”

Sam said nothing. This was a surprise. Strange though that Azrael had done nothing to help during all that crap with the apocalypse. But angels were weird.

“Then it is true that he is dead?” Azrael prompted.

“Well, I didn’t see the body,” Sam confessed. “But what I heard was your brother Lucifer ganked him,” he said.

“I do not speak that one’s name any more,” Azrael said rather curtly. He glared at Sam. “What do you know of my sister?” 

Sam looked up, his eyes all innocence. “I’ve met a bunch of your sisters. Which one? Rachel? Hester? Anna? Or do you mean Raphael?” He said the last with a tiny smirk.

“Metatron has returned. I could sense her. But now I cannot.”

“Oh, you mean the Metatron who wrote the tablets? Wow. Hey, you know if you’re looking for a tablet, maybe you could just ask _her_ for one?”

“I seek her original tablets. That is why I have come to this hellish, sinful place. To claim what is mine.”

“Well, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” said Sam, threatening Azrael’s knight.

“Vegas?” asked Azrael, wiping at his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Las Vegas,” said Sam casually.

“No. We have taken advantage of the real estate collapse in California. This is an abandoned tract house in Barstow.”

“Clever! So, uh, can I use your restroom?” asked Sam, holding up his Styrofoam cup. “Cocoa, you know.”

Azrael shrugged and pointed the way, concentrating on the board.

Sam figured it was not much of a lie. Even if his real life self didn’t need to pee, his dream self should have a bursting bladder after all the terrible hot chocolate. He found a bathroom and poured out the rest of the contents of his cup into the sink, hoping it would at least eat through Azrael's plumbing. And then, concentrating very hard, he opened a window, and, with no little effort (as Sam was not a small man) managed to crawl outside.

And out into the desert. 

“Good. Great. Active dreaming. Okay, hey, Cas!”

Wings fluttered almost before Sam had finished speaking, and Cas arrived in a cloud of dust. 

“Hey, fast service,” said Sam, who was surprised by Cas stepping forward and gripping his shoulders. 

“Sam! I was worried about you! How are you?”

“Hey, Cas, don’t worry dude. I’m fine. Just playing chess and drinking the world’s word instant hot chocolate.” Cas looked puzzled. Sam noticed for the first time that the angel not only lacked his customary trench coat, he lacked almost all clothing. “Hey, are those Dean’s pants?” he asked, pointing to the jeans hanging off Cas’s narrow waist.

Cas sighed. “It’s a long story, Sam.”

Sam smiled, imagining that his brother must have a lot to do with said story. “Sooo.... Dean's okay?”

“Oh, I hadn't told you,” Cas apologized. “Yes, your brother is feeling … _vigorous_.” And here Sam could have sworn Cas rolled his eyes. “He is recovering.”

Sam smirked with the knowledge that he may have caught Dean and Cas in the middle of a quickie. “Anyway, I got some good news, and some bad news. First, Azrael spilled where he’s keeping me.”

“Where, Sam?”

“Barstow. In an abandoned tract house.

This merited an angelic frown. “Barstow. On the edge of the desert. As in the Hunter Thompson book?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, it took some effort for Sam not to giggle. “Wait, Cas, no. You’ve read _Fear and Loathing_?”

Cas looked offended. “Hunter Thompson was an enlightened man! All angels are familiar with his work,” he told Sam primly.

Sam was taken aback. Was there no ending to the wild weirdness of angels? “Well, that’s a surprise. Anyway, he’s also been talking about his plans. I mean, a lot. You know how the apocalypse was gonna wipe out half of humanity?”

“Yes?” Cas did not appear pleased by the mention of the apocalypse.

Sam pushed on. “Azrael plans to finish the job. Everybody.”

Cas looked almost human in his astonishment. “Is…. Is he _crazy_?”

Sam rolled his eyes in a direction that would have been heavenward, were this not a dreamscape. “Cas, he’s an archangel. Crazy goes with the job.”

Cas appeared chastened. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I guess he thinks he can gather up all the souls and then win his feud with Death.”

“He can’t conquer Death, Sam. No one can. Not even my Father.”

“Yeah, well, tell him that. I guess that’s why he’s hot for the angel tablet. It has the secret formula so he can gobble up all the souls and not end up a basket case….”

“You mean like I did,” said Cas sadly.

Sam cast his eyes over the dead landscape for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the sulking angel. “Okay, Cas, from one addict to another. You get one try at that soul-eating thing, but so help me, if you pull any shit like that, ever again, I will find a way to smite you myself!”

Cas shook his head. “Oh! There is no danger of that, Sam. Consuming the souls for me was an … unpleasant experience. I would die first before attempting such a thing again.”

“Yeah? And you would let Dean die?”

That seemed to throw the angel. “Dean is…. I would do nearly anything for your brother, I suppose.” He frowned. “But not that. Never that.” He nodded, seemingly to himself. “Please don't be concerned, Sam. We have … other options to defeat Azrael. And any information you can give me will be helpful.”

“You know what’s weird? I can almost sense Dean here. I mean, a couple of times, it was like I was talking to him. Kind of like the Force, you know?” Sam looked far away. 

“That might be literally true, Sam.”

“How so?”

It was Cas’s turn to gaze into the middle distance. “It’s … complicated. We’ll fill you in when you are returned.”

“Anyway, I should get back. Azrael has probably made his move by now.”

“Thank you, Sam. I will tell Dean. We will try to effect a rescue.”

Sam didn’t mean to ask, but found he couldn’t stop himself. “You're totally wearing Dean's clothes, aren't you?”

Cas looked down at the well-worn jeans and Led Zeppelin T-shirt. “Uh, yes, I apologize, I didn’t suppose you would welcome seeing me, uh, unclothed.”

“Might have been fun if you’d brought the bees,” laughed Sam.

Cas colored. “Yes. That,” he muttered.

“Aw, I’m just teasing, Cas. It’s actually really good to see you. Really, really good.” At which point, Sam’s eyes began fill with tears. 

Cas squinted at him, appearing to make a decision. He held out his arms. Sam engulfed him in a hug, actually lifting the angel from his feet. 

“Okay,” said Sam, wiping a tear. “I’m good now. I'm good. Thanks for that.”

“No problem, Sam.”

“Just … get me out of here, okay?”

“We will. I promise.” He frowned at Sam. “Is there anything else?”

Sam scanned through their conversations for useful information. “Oh. Yeah. I don’t know what you could do with it, but Azrael seems to really miss Gabriel. I mentioned a lot of other angels, but that’s the only one who got a reaction.”

Cas got a funny half-smile. “Many of us do. Miss him.”

“Miss that guy?” The words were out before Sam could stop himself.

“Gabriel was a kind of … little brother to the archangels. Perhaps you could understand that, Sam?”

Sam looked at Cas curiously, and decided he needed to bring this up some time in the future, when they had more time. He reminded himself that relations between brothers were never straightforward. Another thought struck him. “Oh, and I had a weird idea. We’ve got Metatron, the person who originally wrote the tablets, right?” 

 

“So, your piece of shit truck was okay?” asked Dean as he and Benny guided their horses down the path through the meadow. Cas had claimed he needed to work with Metatron on something, so Dean had headed out to relax for a bit.

Benny reigned in his horse and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, my fucking truck was okay. Metatron somehow got me one of them handicapped parking passes. I couldn't refuse. You might say my condition qualifies as a sort of disability.”

“Special parking for bloodsuckers. I like it,” laughed Dean.

“But, just between you and me, brother? I've found myself to be less and less motivated to get on back. Not when I know what it's like up here. You know. There's none of the temptations up here. I just wanna get on a horse and ride. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do, actually.”

Benny studied Dean. “You feeling okay now? I was technically brought up here as your nurse maid.”

“My nurse maid? I would have held out for something that looked better in a nurse's uniform.”

Benny chortled. “I'd do anything for you, brother, but I ain't shaving my legs.”

Dean threw his head back and roared with laughter. “So it was really Cas who asked you up here?” 

“The angel and me, we ain’t never gonna be bosom buddies, but we ain’t enemies either , if that’s what you mean.” Benny was silent for a moment. “But I meant, how is it for you now, being one of us monsters?”

Dean frowned. “Honestly? Just between you and me?”

“Sure.”

Dean looked around, and then confided, “It’s actually kinda fun. I mean, I’m strong as an ox now. And I can _see_ things. Like I’m pretty sure I can sense Cas’s true form, which is weird. And I’m almost certain I can sense Sammy now.”

“But you said no to all this. Cas told me that much.”

“It wasn't really that. It was never about that. Yeah, I was scared it would change me too far. I saw what Lucifer did – tried to do – to Sammy. But it wasn't ever really that.”

They both rode along for a while. “So, what was it?” Benny prompted. “If you don't mind my askin'.”

“You need to remember, our mom died when Sammy was just a baby. And then my dad.... Well, I've talked about that before.”

“Not a family man.”

“Not as such. So, it's always been me and Sammy. Me looking out for Sammy. And this just felt.... Well, I felt like, if I went along with this, it would be mostly for _me_. For Cas and me, I guess.”

“Oh, I see. You didn't wanna abandon your baby brother?”

“Well, yeah. It felt like I’d be leaving him behind. But now, you know, it's like I can sense he's out there. And I wanna get him back, yeah, but.... I feel like he's okay. No, he's not just okay. He's fucking with an archangel. And he's doing it all on his own. I mean, he's had Cas in there, giving him a push. But he's all right, you know? And, I'm pretty proud of the little son of a bitch.”

“Taught him well?” said Benny.

Dean nodded, and they rode in silence for a while. The weather had taken a turn from sunny to dark, as if a storm were approaching. 

And then….

“What was that?” asked Dean, looking up towards the sky. “Did you see that?”

Benny shook his head. They stilled the horses, and stared for a while. 

“No, there, can you see?” It was just in the edge of Dean's vision. Something that looked like flapping wings. “We gotta get back....”

 

Angels are fucking weird when they laugh. Dean reflected that perhaps this was the reason he never “got” Enochian humor. 

It was Cas and Metatron and Ruth sitting around the room. Well, Ruth wasn't an angel, but she was babbling in Enochian. Metatron said something, and Ruth threw her head back and hooted, and Cas, who had a pad of paper and seemed to be working as kind of a note-taker, just kind of slumped, like a ball jointed doll who had just come unstrung. 

“Funnier in Enochian?” Dean sighed as he sat next to Cas, who was still trembling. 

“Metatron does an excellent impression of our Father,” Cas told him.

“Are you guys getting anywhere?” asked Dean. 

Cas held up a pad of paper filled with Enochian squiggles. “We've got enough I think,” said Metatron. “We will need to inscribe this on a tablet.”

“Would it help to look at the other tablets?” asked Ruth. 

“I haven't seen yours for a good long while,” said Metatron. “Perhaps-”

Suddenly, Ruth was gone. And then, in a blink, she was back. Along with the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar.

And it's current guardian, Isaiah. “What do you think you're doing?” he squawked.

“Chill out, Isaiah, we're just _borrowing_ it,” Ruth told him as Metatron grabbed the tablet and stared at it.

“I am Isaiah, Guardian of the tablet!” he yelled, pulling out a sword.

“That's nice, dear,” said Metatron, who snapped her fingers. Isaiah slumped over, unconscious. “He's done a good job, this tablet is very clean and shiny.” She sniffed. “Is that Windex?”

“Guys,” said Dean as Cas spread a drooling Isaiah out on a couch. “I was out riding with Benny, and I could swear I saw something. Up I the air. I could have sworn … it looked like wings.”

Cas was gripping his arm. “You're able to see them now Dean?” 

“See what?”

“We have a legion of angels looking for us,” said Metatron, setting down the tablet. “They are in true form, as they do not yet grasp the exact location of this place in the physical sphere.”

“Not … _yet_?” asked Dean. “I thought you angel-proofed the joint, Mets.”

Metatron didn’t take her eyes from the tablet. “As well as I could. They will eventually figure it out. Angels are stubborn little fuckers. And then they will lay siege, probably killing all of us.”

Dean threw up his hands in despair. “Oh. Well, that's nice. Was somebody gonna tell me about this?”

“There isn't anything you could have done,” Metatron told him. She turned to Ruth. “Let's go compare this to Odin's tablet,” she told her. She stood, and the two went off, carrying the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar, and Cas's notes.

They left Isaiah where he was, snoring on the couch.

“You were recovering, Dean,” Cas reminded him. “That was why we didn't include you when we first noticed the angels.”

“I think I'm recovered. What are we gonna do?”

“The key is to unlock the location of a new tablet. The signal will go out on angel radio, and it will draw off a good portion of the host. I will lead a company of rebel angels who have been in hiding along with Inias. Those who were loyal to … me.” Cas cringed as he spoke the last word.

“You're gonna do what?” asked Dean.

“It makes sense,” said Cas. “It is doubtful that we will specifically uncover the angel tablet, it will no doubt be one of the others, so the skirmish will be a diversion.”

“Skirmish,” said Dean. “With angels? And just how many guys were skulking around with Inias?”

Cas looked pained. “I doubt there were very many.”

“Wait, you don’t know for certain?”

“Inias has actually been very clever. He has studied human revolutionary movements extensively, and has organized the rebels into cell clusters. But as a result, no one knows the exact strength of his troops.”

“Then you'll need help,” said Dean.

Cas turned to Dean and smiled. “I can't make you...”

“I just volunteered. Assbutt.”

Cas actually blushed. “I suppose I should counter with an insult?” he asked.

Dean started to tell Cas it was okay, but then was blindsided with an angelic hug. “Uh,” said Cas, looking around to make sure Isaiah was still asleep. “I think that was indirectly from your brother. Anyway, while we meet the angels, Ruth and Bibi will offer up the counterfeit angel tablet directly to Azrael.”

“So we're going to be fighting over a tablet that's not the angel tablet, while we're also exchanging another tablet that's not the angel tablet. That is … really, really fucking confusing as hell, Cas.”

“You haven't heard the third part!” said Cas proudly. He scowled as the cell phone in his pocket went off. He stared at the text message. 

“What?” asked Dean.

“Meg. We have it. We finally have it.”

 

“You ready, brother?” asked Benny, untying the last of the chords that bound the houseboat to the dock.

Garth waved tentatively at Linda Tran, who was standing, arms crossed, up by the stairs to the parking lot. She did not wave back. “Yeah, I guess,” he said.

“She’ll come around,” Benny told him.

“Linda is one stubborn lady,” sighed Garth as they walked to the wheelhouse.

“What were you feudin’ about?” asked Benny. “If you don’t mind my askin’? It’s pretty damned obvious there’s trouble in paradise.”

Garth gripped the wheel and began to ease the boat off the moorage and out of the harbor. “Well, her son is reconsidering medical school. He’s contemplating a career in the arts instead. Now, I told her it took me a while to find a career myself. I started out in dentistry, but found myself pulled inexorably towards the huntin’ life.”

“You support Kevin?”

“That’s what I made the mistake of tellin’ Linda.” Garth heaved a sigh.

“Well, parents want what’s best. Your kin always have a special place.”

Garth looked wistful. “I had thought maybe the boy would come to consider me a father figure.”

“Well, that is nice,” said Benny. “But you know, blended families….”

“It’s a heavy task,” said Garth. As they hit the open ocean, he throttled up.

“Aw, it’s good to be asea again!” said Benny, smelling the salt wind.

“So, you have had encounters with mermaids before, Benny?” asked Garth. 

Benny chuckled. “Many a time. We don’t feed on their blood, and their siren calls don’t affect us, so we get along all right.”

“They ain’t … skeezy, like fairies, are they?” Garth shuddered.

“You ain’t never seen a mermaid before?” laughed Benny. “Well, it’s high time. And Kevin says this is the last ingredient, so we’re almost set.” He shook his head. “Well, too damn bad for that boy there ain’t no money in being a prophet of the lord.”

“Castiel says they tend to madness. Prophets. Which I think would not be a hindrance for an artist as much as a doctor.”

“You got a point there, brother.”

And they sailed on.

 

Cas and Dean awaited the angels in the middle of an empty field somewhere in Kansas. They were a few miles away from a small town named Salina. Dean knew this because it was marked on the water tower, which seemed to be the highest structure in a hundred miles. 

“Weird that this tablet was in the Midwest all along. I guess God really did love America,” said Dean.

Cas was looking around nervously. “This meeting location was Inias's choice. It's too exposed for my tastes, but he insisted we needed sufficient room for everybody to assemble.” He looked at Dean. “We probably could have gotten by with a booth at a diner.”

“Well, you know, too many angels spoil the pie,” laughed Dean. “C’mon Cas, loosen up. Your light is getting all funky.”

“My … what?”

“You know, all that stuff about being a celestial wavelength?” Dean traced a hand on Cas’s face. “I can kind of see it now.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. And you’re getting all static-y. Why are you worried? Weren’t you some kind of heavenly general in your old gig?”

“Dean, I led beings who obeyed without question. I was doing my Father’s work. At least, I always thought I was doing my Father’s bidding. These beings, they have a choice. To follow, or….”

“Or tell you to go fuck yourself,” Dean concluded. Cas nodded glumly.

But before Dean could come up with something reassuring, there was a rustling of wings, and Inias appeared, along with about a half dozen angels. Dean was surprised to see a distinct lack of suits and ties: they were casually dressed, like Inias, and some looked as rumpled as Cas always did.

“We should hurry, Inias,” said Cas.

“We need to wait for the others,” said Inias, who was now the one watching the sky.

“Castiel!” said one of the female angels. Dean grinned. A Cas groupie. Cas nervously made introductions. All of them had heard of Dean, who seemed to be a minor celebrity among angelkind.

Then there was another flutter of wings, and this time, about a dozen new people appeared in the field. 

“You've put out the word?” Inias asked the new group, to nods.

“You don't know how many guys total?” asked Dean.

“No. I have made an extensive study of human revolutionary movements. We have organized ourselves as cells,” Inias explained proudly. “I told them to spread the word, one to another. Everyone we can muster. I don't know how many of us there are in all.” Just then, another wave, three more angels, appeared. And then two more.

Cas led Dean and Inias over to introduce themselves to the new arrivals. But no sooner than that was completed, more angels appeared.

And then another wave.

And another.

And another.

Dean had lost track of how many, but continued walking around with Cas and Inias, as Cas introduced himself to every new arrival. There was one whole little group all wearing suits who said they were apparently among the latest to defect.

Dean gripped Cas's arm. “Dude,” he whispered, painfully aware that probably everyone here could hear him regardless, “this is a fuckload of angels.”

“I- What can I say to them, Dean?”

“Well, probably a bad mistake to tell them you're the new god.” Cas glared, and Dean asked, “Too soon?”

“I … hate talking to angels. I prefer to commune with bees.”

“Well, look, whatever the hell you've said before? It worked. Look around you.” Indeed, the entire field was now crawling with angels. Dean could not only see and hear them; he could somehow also sense their presence. There was something in his heart, all expectation. It felt like a weird cross between Christmas morning and his first job interview.

Cas scowled in concentration. And then he suddenly shrugged off his trench coat and handed it over to Dean. “Hold this,” he said. 

Dean gave him a confused look, but grabbed the coat, and the jacket after it. “My brothers and sisters!” Cas shouted. Dean grinned. He could always imagine that voice shattering windows. “I thank you for coming. I know it was a choice.” Dean shook his head. It sounded a little too much like an airline announcement, but on the other hand, he doubted any of these dudes flew United. Anyway, the angels apparently appreciated this, as there were smiled and nods.

To Dean's puzzlement, Cas was loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. “Long ago, our Father created humans. A miracle.” Cas paused and looked at Dean, who suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. “He asked that we bow down before His creation. However, it seems that many of us did not listen, nor take this to heart. Instead, they served, and continued to serve, themselves, and to serve angelkind.” He doffed the shirt, handing it too over to Dean, and then turned his back to the crowd, so everyone could see the tattoos that covered his back: the portrait of burning wings. There was a murmuring, and Dean heard at least one guy with a nose-ringed vessel remark, “Nice ink.” 

“These markings on my back: they are a covenant that this day, I have subjugated myself to my Father’s creations, to humanity. I bore these in pain, as proof of what I believe: that I will try my best, from this day forward, to follow our Father's real intentions, and serve his best loved creation, humanity, with all my heart.” Dean smiled, wishing he had grabbed a couple of business cards from the tattoo artist. He thought she was going to be getting a lot of work from people who flapped in.

“What should we do, Castiel?” prompted Inias as the assemblage began to chatter again. Dean imagined he could see them fluffing out their wings.

“My Father bestowed on humanity a great gift: a compendium of tablets, containing the Word of God. Now one of our brothers, Azrael-” (there were some gasps and a few cries at the mention of the name) “-has decided to gather the Word for himself. To take them from the prophet, Kevin, and their rightful guardians. We need to stop him. And, you who are loyal to humanity, to our Father's wishes, I need your help.”

“Azrael is … very powerful,” said one of the angels who was wearing a suit. There were nods.

“We have an ally,” said Cas. 

“Who?” asked another angel.

“The author of the tablets. Metatron.”

That seemed to meet with general angelic approval, as now the assembled crowd began to look less terrified (at least to Dean's eyes, knowing what he knew about angels) and a little more hopeful. 

“Will Metatron fight alongside us today, Castiel?” came a shout.

“Metatron, along with some of our allies, is going to confront Azrael directly. It is essential for their success that we engage some of Azrael’s forces here, to keep them diverted from that encounter.

“You are not obligated to fight alongside me today. It is your free will choice. I know I have made many mistakes in the past. I hope you will forgive me…. And I hope you will help us.”

The angels were muttering and fake-flapping again, so Dean stepped up beside Cas. “So say we all!” he shouted.

There was some cheering and shouts of “Yeah!” from the crowd of angels.

“You needed to finish with something punchy, dude,” Dean whispered to Cas.

“Dean. Give me back my shirt,” Cas whispered back, holding out his hand, but not taking his eyes from the cheering crowd of angels.

 

Sam looked around, stifling a yawn. Was this finally the real world? It looked very unlike the house where he and Azrael had been playing chess (Azrael had, after much consideration, finally retired the last match): instead they stood in the dead grass outside some hideous vacant candy-colored McMansion on the end of a dusty cul-de-sac. It felt different. Sam felt like he'd overslept, stiff and drowsy, although he was trying not to show it. What baffled him was that Azrael, standing at his side, appeared exactly the same as his dream manifestation, the Gary Oldman Dracula, complete with funky little sunglasses. Had the guy somehow rounded up a vessel suited to his specifications? Or was he just so fricking powerful he could actually conjure up a body? 

Sam looked up. He heard not wingbeats, as when angels arrive, but only felt perhaps a difference in the air pressure. Ruth and Bibi were now standing in his presence. “Hey, Sam!” said Ruth, giving him a little wave. Before he could stop himself, Sam waved back, even though they were only standing a few feet apart.

“I am Shri Vibhishana,” Bibi told Azrael, “and this is Ruth.”

“Oooo. This is Azrael?” asked Ruth, batting her eyes.

“What?” Bibi asked her.

“Oh. Nothing,” Ruth told him immediately.

“They sent me … pagans?” snorted Azrael, evidently staring down his nose at them, though it was difficult to determine, as he still wore smoked glasses.

“Aw, keep your shirt on,” said Ruth. “I used to be human. Besides, we're just the delivery. Now, hand over Sam, and we'll get outta here.”

Azrael glared at them. “Where is the tablet?”

Ruth and Bibi looked at each other for a moment. “I thought you brought it,” said Ruth.

“Are you certain you didn't have it, dear?” Bibi asked her. 

 

Dean had traveled along with the biggest party of angels he had ever seen.

That is, until they reached the site where the tablet was supposed to be located. Cas had said they would be outnumbered. Dean hadn't reckoned it would be by a factor of ten to one. 

“We're dead. Aren't we?” he asked Cas as they stood on an overlook, gazing down at the legion of Azrael’s heavenly troops.

“As I said, we simply need to keep them distracted. This is a diversion.”

“A diversion? Did you bring your Twister game?”

“Perhaps I should have brought Sorry?” Cas fired back. Dean smiled.

They had one factor working in their favor: as Cas had explained, once the tablet had been uncovered, using the ritual with what Dean was now calling Meg's Frisbee of Doom, the angels would gain a vague sense of where the Word of God was located, but would be unable to pinpoint the exact spot by pure angelic instinct alone. And the location wasn’t obvious: the ritual this time had ended up setting off an earthquake in the vicinity, and the ground was now riddled with fissures, any of which might possibly contain the tablet within. Azrael’s troops had a wide area to search. 

Fortunately for them between Meg’s magic discus and Kevin’s prophet instincts, they had managed to pinpoint the exact location of the tablet on a map. Cas and Inias had decided to use guerilla tactics to engage Azrael’s forces. His troops would zap in, fight for long enough to distract Azrael’s angels form their search, and then zap out, hopefully before they had sustained too many casualties. Or anybody alerted the local papers, which probably did not expect legions of angels smiting each other out in a field.

As Dean was still not conversant with the whole zapping thing, and as he was still flying below angel radar due to the sigils carved in his ribs, Cas had appointed to him the task of actually ferreting out the stupid tablet and digging it up. 

Unearthing it was going to involve Dean crawling through the field on his belly, keeping out of the watchful eye of the angels, and screwing around with a GPS device, none of which Dean especially relished. He was out in the middle of the field, up on his muddy knees to check the longitude and latitude again when he heard a whistling overhead, and threw himself back down to the ground. He cautiously peered up. Cas’s forces and Azrael’s were engaged in heavy fighting right up ahead. He looked down to the GPS device, and then back up at the squabbling angels. 

“Shit. Hey, Cas!” he whispered. And quite suddenly, he was standing out near the margins of the battle, staring at Cas, who was holding a bloody sword and definitely was looking the worse for wear. Dean was pretty sure the angel’s nose had been broken for the umpteenth time, as his face was streaked in red. He fought down the instinct to grab his angel and yank him somewhere far, far away. Instead he said, “Cas, I'm stuck. I've located the position, but it's right in the middle of a skirmish.”

Cas looked over to where Dean was pointing, and sadly nodded. “We need to think of a way to draw them away.”

“You doing okay?” Dean asked.

Cas smiled wryly. “As I said, Dean, I would rather commune with bees.”

“Cas!”

“What is it, Dean?”

“You still talk to bees? I mean, now that you're recovered?”

Cas looked wistful. “I could always commune with them, Dean. They are highly intelligent....”

“And they follow God's plan, right? You said so yourself.” Cas frowned and nodded. “So, you think they'd be pissed off about a bunch of angels trying to upset it?”

 

“That was rude,” grumbled Crowley as he suddenly appeared, alongside Meg, in the middle of the cul-de-sac in Barstow. “Pulling me out of my own evil headquarters like that.” Sam blinked. After some minutes of back and forth between Azrael and Ruth and Bibi, it turned out that they didn't have the tablet after all, and the frustrated archangel had zapped over the ones who Ruth _happened_ to mention were in possession of the object. To Sam's eyes, neither demon seemed terribly surprised.

“We could lock you back in the storeroom, Crowley,” grumbled Meg.

“Hrm. Dark storeroom, or buggers archangel,” mused Crowley.

“I wish you to give over the tablet, demons!” demanded Azrael. 

Meg regarded the archangel, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. _This_ is Azrael?” She whistled low. “Not bad.”

“I know, right?” Ruth told her.

“What the blazes are they going on about?” asked Crowley, regarding the nodding women.

“Azrael's vessel,” sighed Bibi. “They find him attractive. They’re starkers.”

Crowley snorted. “That's bloody ridiculous. He's just an ordinary-looking man who happens to need a haircut worse than Sam Winchester.”

“Sam's not bad either,” Ruth whispered to Meg.

“I wouldn't kick him outta bed. If you know what I mean,” mumbled Meg.

“You know I can hear you. I’m right over here,” said Sam, who didn’t much appreciate being objectified. 

“Where is the tablet, demons?” growled Azrael, who was obviously growing smite-y over all the patter.

“Well, that wasn't attractive,” Meg muttered to Ruth.

“Yeah, I hate it when the cute ones are dicks,” said Ruth.

“We want the Winchester kid, ridiculous hair and all, first,” said Crowley, who suddenly had not a tablet, but a very, very, very long contract in his hand.

“You don't make demands of me, demon,” Azarael stated.

Crowley flourished the contract. “This isn't a demand. More a memorandum of understanding.” He suddenly flourished a basket. “And look, I’ve even brought muffins.”

There was a flurry of wingbeats. Sam gasped. Quite suddenly, the small party of humans and demons found themselves surrounded by a large, very intimidating company of angels. He prayed that Ruth and Bibi and the others knew what the hell they were doing.

The wind whipped, and pulled the contract from Crowley's grasp where it went fluttering over to one of the angels. The angel gripped the contract, and it flashed and burned to a crisp.

“Well, no muffins for you, mate,” said Crowley, suddenly pulling out instead a sparkling pinwheel instead, which he let spin in the wind. 

“Fair's fair, Azrael,” said Bibi. “You give us Sam, and then we'll give up the tablet.”

Azrael put his hands on his hips. “I want the tablet. And I want the archangel you've been hiding.”

“Oh, you can't change terms like that in the middle of negotiation,” sniffed Crowley. Azrael snapped his fingers. The pinwheel sparked and melted. Crowley tossed it down in disgust. “OK, Sunshine, time to learn you don't mess with a man's stuff.”

Azrael had begun to gather a weird blue glow around him.

“All right, Azrael,” said Ruth. “Here’s your tablet!” Suddenly Meg was holding a stone tablet. Azrael stretched out his hand. “And here’s your archangel!” added Ruth. The ground began the tremble, and Sam was thrown back, nearly losing his footing. Ruth shrugged, and then in an instant blew up to someone one hundred times her size. Six great wings unfolded from her back.

“Wanna see a trick?” asked Ruth, he voice booming over the dry landscape. She began to chant in Enochian. Suddenly, Meg, who was still holding the tablet, was standing between two growling dragons. 

Azrael was gaping up at Ruth. “Gabriel?” he asked. “Brother. Is that you?”

“Here we go, mate,” whispered Bibi, who had somehow gotten behind Sam while Azrael was distracted and now zapped him away. 

A contingent of angels broke and rushed the dragons. They slashed at the great beasts, but were stunned when their swords went right through.

“It's a trick!” yelled one of the angels. “They’re just illusions.” He leapt towards a dragon and, ignoring the flaming breath, put a sword through it. It vanished. 

The angel grabbed the tablet from Meg, who gave it over with an arched eyebrow. “Oh, you're sharp. For an angel. Better enjoy it while you can.”

Ruth was still chanting in Enochian. There was a whistling sound, and two Leviathan crash landed next to the angel with the tablet. “Illusions!” screamed the angel, who lunged at one, running it through with an angel sword. The Leviathan snarled, pulled the sword out of itself, and then gutted the angel. 

The tablet smashed to the ground, breaking into three pieces.

“Oops. Sorry, feathers, that Leviathan was real,” grinned Crowley. He blew at his brand new, shiny pinwheel.

 

In a field near Salina, Kansas, an angel raised his sword at one of Cas's freedom fighters.

And then he began to scream, engulfed by a swarm of angry bees.

Cas, who was sitting on a tree branch overlooking the fight, spoke softly to the bee perched on his index finger. 

“Tell him thanks,” said Dean, who was sitting next to him.

“Bees are much in harmony with God's plan,” Cas told him.

“And make sure they know not to sting my ass when I go out there?” Dean asked, as Cas seemed distracted.

Cas smiled. Dean heard a buzzing, and felt a tiny weight on his shoulder. “Oh,” he said, staring cross-eyed at the honey bee perched there.

“This is Thaddeus. He will be your escort,” Cas explained.

“Okay. Bees have names?”

“Well, I don't think you could pronounce his proper name,” said Cas, who added a little buzz that was presumably Thaddeus’s appellation in bee-speak.

“Great. Well, Tad, here we go, all right?” Dean hopped down from the tree branch and, being careful that he was not spotted by the angels still skirmishing in the vicinity, hurried over to locate the coordinates he had set on his GPS. 

He shinnied down to the bottom of one of the great fissures in the ground. And then he grabbed his shovel, and began to dig.


	16. Chapter 16

**Title:** Seven Hells, Part 16 of 16  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we gallop off into an AU and never return. Also, this chapter makes mention of a very silly and improbable version of mpreg. You should be fine if you’ve sat through mythology class, but be warned.  
 **Word Count:** 100,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)  
 **Summary:** Sam, Dean and Cas, along with an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.  
 **Notes:** Hey, you made it to the last chapter. Congrats. You owe yourself a cookie. (And get one for me.)

 

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” said Bibi.

Sam looked around. His own hell memories had dimmed, but this looked nothing like what he remembered. Is seemed very … clean. “You live in the underworld now, Bibi?”

“Naraka. Yeah. Oh, that’s right. You’ve been away, haven’t you, mate?”

“Uh, yeah, playing chess with an eccentric archangel.” Sam walked alongside Bibi. This place reminded him more than a little of the zoo. Only with abominations instead of giraffes. They passed enclosures containing a creature with luminous wings, and a sinuous multi-headed viper. There was the scent of fire and brimstone mixed with manure, but it wasn’t unpleasant. 

“My uncle, Yamaraja, has passed on to the next plane of existence.”

It took Sam a beat. “Oh, I’m sorry man! I really liked that guy.”

“Thanks. Well, he died heroic like, so he should have a good journey. Anyway, he tapped me to run the place. By the way, you’re not squeamish about snakes, are you? This creature, she’s fairly serpentine.”

“Naw. I’m good. As long as you don’t have any clowns.”

Bibi grimaced. “Yeah, I hate those things. Who thinks they’re jolly, right?”

Sam regarded the dark man walking alongside him. Unlike nearly everyone else on the planet, Bibi was nearly as tall as Sam. “So, you and Ruth are getting married, right? Is she good with all this?”

“Oh, she’s glorying in it! She’ll make a right queen of hell. All right, here we are, Creepy Crawly Central.”

Sam stepped back. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

Bibi looked like a proud parent. “Yeah, Chinese style.”

“Whoa!” The beast uncoiled its great neck to nose at Sam, and he reached out and rubbed the scaly snout. It emitted a rumble, as if it were purring. “I think it likes me!” 

Bibi grinned. His teeth were white. He wagged a finger at Sam. “Now, your brother made me swear up and down to tuck you away some place nice and safe once we’d plucked you out of Azrael’s clutches.”

“Oh. Bibi. Dude!” said Sam, making his very best puppy dog eyes.

 

Dean, digging for one of those goddamned tablets down inside a great crack in the ground somewhere in the middle of Kansas, cringed and fell on his shovel as two angels clashed almost directly overhead. They struggled for a while, and then finally moved away. With a sigh he asked, “We okay, Tad dude?” Dean frowned. “All right, I'm talking to a bee.” The bee on his shoulder buzzed, so he decided it was probably good to go on digging for the tablet.

And then there was another screech, angel versus angel, and he had to hit the dirt once again.

Dean righted himself, shaking off the soil, highly annoyed. “You know, Tad, I'm a god now, right? Shouldn't I be able to you know, use my godlike powers to magic up the tablet?”

The buzz this time sounded affirmative. Hey, maybe Cas wasn’t the only one who could talk to the animals, just imagine it? So, questioning his own mental health, Dean carefully laid down his shovel and concentrated on the loose earth below him. “Ummm. _Accio tablet?_ ” he tried. To his great shock, the ground underneath him began to vibrate. He looked at the bee, and then raised his hand towards the ground, the same way he’d seen Cas or Sam do when they did their magical incantation shit. And then he concentrated very, very hard. Yes, it was right below him. He could…. Well, he could feel it. Very weird. And cool. He stretched out his hand, the ground trembled again.

And then there was a crack.

The tablet popped up like a toaster pastry. Unthinkingly, Dean rushed to get underneath, disregarding that the thing must weigh considerably more than a softball. He caught it, right in the middle of the glove. If he’d been wearing a glove. 

“Jackpot!” he told his bee friend. “I’m Luke Fucking Skywalker. Uh. Or maybe Harry Potter? And also part Willie Mays, which is cool. OK, cut the chatter, Tad, we gotta get this to Cas.”

 

“This isn't the word of God! This is a fake!” declared the vampire Gary Oldman/Azrael the archangel, taking a very deliberate sniff of the tablet. While his company of angels had been kept very busy (and often screaming) playing a game of “Spot the Real Leviathan” against Crowley and Ruth, Azrael had gotten his hands on the tablet Meg had given over and used his archangel mojo to painstakingly assemble it back together. 

Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that there were very few of Crowley’s real Leviathan amongst Ruth’s illusions. Once the angels had figured that out, the battle had quickly turned against Ruth and the demons.

“We tried to make it funny,” complained Ruth as Azrael furiously re-smashed the tablet bits on the ground, creating yet more bits. She had shrunk back down to normal size from her seraphic form, which had been an illusion, and she, Meg and Crowley were now standing in the middle of a crowd of Azrael's angels, all of whom wore ugly expressions. “It was hilarious! You didn’t even read it!”

“No sense of humor, that one,” said Crowley, puffing on his sparkling pinwheel. He flourished it, and with a flash it morphed into an angel sword. “You ready, Elvira?” he asked Meg, who was suddenly holding her own angel sword. 

“Ready to stab a bunch of motherfucking angels? Sure, Lucky Charms,” she grinned. 

Ruth now held two swords. “Listen up Azrael. That tablet belongs to humanity. Yield. Or die.”

“You three think you are going to fight my legions!” huffed Azrael.

“They never listen,” sighed Ruth. “I said, ‘Yield or die.’ You heard me.”

“No, they never do listen,” said Bibi, who was suddenly standing in back of her.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Azrael, who probably regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

“Hey, everybody! Did you miss me?” yelled Sam, who had just suddenly popped up at the edge of the field.

“Sam? Where did you come from?” asked Azrael.

“I hopped a ride from one of Bibi's friends.” Sam stepped aside. 

There was a dragon behind him.

A real one. Chinese style. It uncoiled its scaly neck. And hissed. 

And spat fire, scorching several of Azrael’s angels, who ran screaming in pain.

“Oh, fuck me,” said Azrael.

 

“Got it!” said Dean. He proudly handed the still muddy tablet over to Cas. “You’ll never guess how I got it out!”

“We’ve got to get this out of here,” said Cas. His trench coat was badly bloodstained, though whose blood wasn’t clear. His vessel had definitely sustained several wounds.

“Then let’s get going, like we planned,” said Dean, grabbing his angel by the arm.

“I can’t abandon my forces now. We’ve incurred heavy losses. I’ll get Inias to take you.”

“I’m not going anywhere while you’re still here.” Thaddeus the bee buzzed sympathetically around Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean! This is really an inopportune time for you to express your characteristic stubbornness.”

“Right back at you, angel boy.”

Dean and Cas glared at each other for a long moment, before they were interrupted by the sound of a horn blaring in the distance. They both broke eye-lock to turn to look northward. A great company of riders had appeared out of nowhere, led by a man with reddish hair and a neatly trimmed red beard, astride a monstrous eight-legged horse. Two huge wolves prowled at his feet. Hel rode beside him, and the combined armies of Valhalla and the netherworld were arrayed behind them.

“Yippie-ki-yay, motherfuckers!” shouted Odin. And to emphasize his point, he let fly his spear, which caught a rather large seraph and pinned him to a tree. Shouting and howling, the cavalry charged the angels. As Cas and Dean watched, astounded, Azrael’s legions broke before the thundering onslaught.

“Boy, I bet Salina has never had so much fun,” said Dean. Cas sighed and appeared to wipe a tear. 

“Is it possible?” asked Inias, who had just appeared at Cas’s side.

“I thought you angel guys were the miracle people,” said Dean. “Well, here you go.”

“Inias, we have the tablet. Take charge here. Help Odin. I’m going to take Dean and deliver the tablet to Azrael.”

Inias gripped Cas’s shoulder. “Please take care, brother.” Dean realized he and Cas were leaving to go confront an archangelic battle to the death. Not for the first time that day, he questioned his own sanity. 

Cas nodded at his friend. “You do the same, Inias. Dean, are you ready?” 

“Castiel! Wait!” shouted Inias. Two of Cas’s angels had struggled out of the melee. They held between them a woman wearing a suit. A prisoner, Dean thought.

“She begged to be taken before you,” said the male angel who had been holding her.

“Naomi,” sighed Cas. “I really don’t have time for your bullshit right now.”

“This is that Naomi chick?” growled Dean, who found his mind drifting to creative ways of flaying her alive.

“Castiel! Please!” Naomi had fallen to her knees in front of him. “They say you have news of Samandriel.”

Cas glared down at her. “Crowley was holding him. He was tortured. He…. He is hovering between life and death even now.”

She stared up, her eyes wide. “No. Tell me it’s not so.”

“I’m sorry, Naomi. Samandriel is under my protection now.”

“So Alfie. Or Samandriel. He was your friend?” asked Dean suspiciously.

Naomi was breathing hard. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I turned him in. I had to do it. He was loyal to you. He was a traitor.” Suddenly, she sprang up and jumped at one of her guards, wrestling away his angel sword. She scrambled in the mud, a few feet away, where she pointed the sword at herself, harakiri style. “I did this.”

She went sprawling when Cas, quick as a flash, stepped over and landed a roundhouse punch on her jaw. He grabbed the sword, and then yanked Naomi up by the collar, so she was face to face with him.

“No more death,” he growled. He tossed her back down and ordered the guards, “Keep a watch on her. I’ll decide what to do with her when we get back. Dean?”

“Tad is coming too,” said Dean, indicating the bee still buzzing at his shoulder. “He’s my dude.”

Cas looked distractedly at Dean, and then, flashing a very small smile, put two fingers on Dean’s forehead.

 

“Are you sure you have your notebook, Kevin?”

“Mom,” whined Kevin. “For the last time-“

“You guys might wanna keep it down,” urged Namtar, who grasped his little brother’s hand tightly as he and the Trans threaded down through the dusty streets of Irkalla. “My stepdad’s got eyes everywhere.”

“Doesn’t look like there’s much here, dude,” Kevin remarked.

“There’s no dogs,” sulked Namtar. 

“Dogs are cool,” agreed Kevin.

“Uncle Odin has some great dogs! Well, I mean, technically, they’re wolves, but they’re really cool.”

“Oh, so he’s _Uncle_ Odin now?” laughed Nergal, who had just appeared in front of the small party. 

Namtar swallowed hard. He didn’t need to look around to know several of his stepfather’s guards had now probably got them surrounded. “I gotta go, Nergal. I’m late for my violin recital.”

“Are you? Then, where is your violin case?” chuckled Nergal. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you, boy? But actually, I’m really smart! So now, hand over that tablet, and we can end this peacefully.

“Back off, Nergal,” hissed Namtar, who flourished his dark wings in a threatening manner. Little Ninazu beside him flapped his small wings as well.

Nergal actually backed down a step, seeming, for once, uncertain. But then he frowned and steeled himself. “Give me that tablet!” he snarled, lunging for Kevin. But he howled in pain as his jaw was met by Mrs. Tran’s fist.

“Keep away from my boy,” Mrs. Tran lectured him as Nergal sprawled on the ground, rubbing his broken jaw. Linda gasped as she was suddenly grasped by the shirt and wrenched upwards. 

Namtar had grabbed both Kevin and Mrs. Tran and, though they made a clumsy assemblage, was flying them towards the city gates. “Ninazu!” Namtar yelled back, and then, gasping with the exertion, he lumbered towards the city wall, where he unceremoniously dumped the Trans to the ground, red-faced, huffing and puffing.

“Whoa, that was cool!” enthused Kevin, who bounced to his feet. “I didn’t realize those wings actually worked!”

“What the hell did you think they were for,” huffed Namtar.

“I dunno. Maybe as a dust mop?”

“Where is Ninazu?” asked Linda, scanning around for him.

“No worries, here he comes now!” said Namtar, pointing towards the funny moth-like object now fluttering towards them. Ninazu dive-bombed and ended up in his brother’s arms. “He just stopped a minute to cure everybody’s deep-seated anger issues. My stepdad is gonna have a hard time rallying his guards.”

“Wait, what is that?” asked Kevin as a very strange-looking man rushed up to them. The dude looked like he was decked out in an entire Goodwill shop’s bounty, from the purple cowboy hat on top of his head, the fringed jacket he wore over a lady’s evening gown over bloomers, and flip-flops somehow jammed underneath his boots.

“I need an article of clothing from each of you! Them’s the rules.”

“Back off, or I’ll give you dysentery again,” warned Namtar, flapping his wings.

“No, don’t do that!” the raggedy man pleaded. He rubbed his belly. “I still have tummy troubles from the last time.”

“Oh, and make sure my stepfather doesn’t get out. Not until we come back for him,” Namtar told him.

“Yes, Prince Namtar. Anything you say.”

“Also, Ninazu wants your hat!” In truth, the little god had been hopping up and down, gesturing for the gate guard’s knit cap. With great reluctance, the gate guard took it off and handed it over to Namtar, who stuck it on a giddy Ninazu’s head.

“Okay,” said Namtar, “now everybody lean close, I gotta zap us all out of here.”

 

_“Azrael! Stop!”_

Dean put a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. He stood in the middle of the desert near Barstow, clutching the tablet, while around him angels battled every size and shape of hell monsters. As they had planned, Bibi had unleashed Naraka for this. There were even some creatures Dean could have sworn were dragons. Not Ruth’s Broadway musical-influenced illusions. Real goddamn dragons.

And on top of the sensory overload, now he was absolutely certain he had just heard – actually heard – the sound of Cas’s true voice.

And then Cas was beside him, in human form.

“Dude. When you angel up? I think I can hear you now,” Dean told him.

Cas looked intrigued. “Really? I wonder if you can see me.”

“Don’t really wanna go eye melt, but, yeah.”

“Azrael, we have the tablet!” Cas yelled.

“I'll take that,” said Azrael, who was suddenly, in the middle of the smoke and fury, standing before them.

“Azrael? Is Gary Oldman?” Dean whispered to Cas.

“Your brother chose this vessel, Dean Winchester,” sighed Azrael. They all ducked as overhead, a sinuous winged dragon chased after an angel. 

“Holy shit,” muttered Dean, staring up at the guy riding the dragon. “Is that Sammy?”

“Now give me the tablet!” shouted Azrael. With a flick of his fingers, the tablet was wrenched from Dean’s hands and sailed over to Azrael. He stared at the tablet, and gave it a sniff. And then he licked it.

“Ewww, angel germs,” said Dean.

“This tablet it truly the Word of the Lord,” said Azrael. 

“You can’t read that, Azrael,” Cas told him. “It’s not meant for you. It’s meant for humanity.”

“You must give over Metatron to translate it for me. I know she’s in hiding.” 

“Azrael, be reasonable,” said Cas.

“Reasonable isn't in the archangel playbook,” Dean whispered to him.

“Brother, Odin is routing your forces in Kansas. You won’t last long here against the combined forces of the underworld.” 

Azrael glowered. “Give her over, Castiel, or I will smite you and everyone you know!”

“Cas, dude,” said Dean. “You heard Vampire Diaries over here. I really don’t wanna see you go all chunky soup again.”

“If you insist, Azrael,” sighed Cas. “Metatron?”

There was a flash, like ball lightning striking nearby. And Metatron stood on the edge of the cul-de-sac.

“Whoa, she knows how to make an entrance,” commented Dean, as the hairs on the back of his arms stood up. The crazy battle of demons versus angels waging overhead and all around them suddenly seemed very far away. Despite the acrid smell of smoke, the roar of flying demonic monsters and the clash of weaponry, only Azrael and Metatron registered. They both radiated raw pure power, like a couple of small nuclear infernos.

Metatron’s footsteps echoed through the desert. “I wasn’t hiding, brother,” she said. She took off her sunglasses and waved them at him. “By the way, that is a highly attractive vessel.”

“Why do women always like these ugly guys with long hair?” Dean asked Cas. “He's just an ugly guy with long hair.”

“I think you are more attractive, Dean,” said Cas.

“Thanks, Cas.”

“This was Sam Winchester's doing,” grumbled an obviously frustrated Azrael.

Metatron huffed. “Ah, I didn't think you had the taste. Now, will you cut out the temper tantrum? And stop this fighting! Or do you need a time out?”

“I sensed you had returned, Metatron,” said Azrael. “Now you will pay for your perfidy.”

Metatron studied her fingernails. “Perfidy? Oh, come on Azzy, Father is omniscient. Who says it wasn't his plan that I took off with a tablet?”

Azrael flushed scarlet. “Do not call me that! You will read this tablet to me, or I will slay your friends. All of them.”

“Quit trying to impress me,” sighed Metatron. “You’re not Death. You'll never be Death. No matter how many tablets you steal. And you know why?” Despite being in a shorter vessel, she stared down at him. “Because Death has class.”

“You were always a know-it-all.”

“You were always a spoiled brat!”

“This is what the end of the world comes down to?” Dean whispered to Cas.

“My family. What can I say,” moaned Cas, who was blushing deeply.

“I will end you.” Azrael was thundering. “And I will end everybody.”

“And then reign over … what exactly?” Dean interjected. 

“Dean is right,” said Metatron. “You can't create. Only our Father can do that. You can only kill, Azzy.”

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That,” shrieked Azrael. And with a rush of wind, the archangel morphed into a fireball, rising up a good twenty feet in the air as he did so.

“He never cared for that nickname,” Metatron told them.

“OK,” said Dean. “Human Torch archangel, not good.”

“Do I have to come up there?” yelled Metatron, who herself turned into a knot of electricity and charged up to meet her brother.

“This is so not good,” Dean told Cas. 

“No, Dean. It isn’t.” Cas lurched to cover Dean, and Dean felt himself zapped a good 100 yards away just as Azrael sent a column of white hot fire towards Metatron. She countered with an electrical zap, and the resulting conflagration melted the spot underneath the two battling angels, where Cas and Dean had just been standing. The ground trembled, sending a shock wave that nearly knocked them from their feet.

“I'm so sorry I'm late!” piped up Namtar, who had just turned up, along with Kevin and Mrs. Tran. “I couldn't find a sitter for Ninazu.” He was holding on to his little brother, who scrambled out of his arms to come stand by Cas.

“That’s a very nice hat, Ninazu,” Cas complimented the small boy.

“Now, don't apologize, Namtar. It's nice to see a well-behaved boy,” said Mrs. Tran.

“Mom! Just fuck off,” sighed Kevin, who was holding a large bowl. 

“Language, Kevin!”

Everyone was distracted from the chatter as Azrael whipped out another trail of flame at Metatron, who countered with a bolt of lightning. Thunder cracked. A great fissure appeared in the ground underneath them.

“Guys! You have the stuff?” asked Dean. “It’s archangel cage match time. We need this like yesterday!”

“Everything but the mermaid tears,” said Mrs. Tran. She tutted. “Garth was gonna bring them. So untrustworthy.”

“Got 'em!” yelled Bibi, who had just popped up holding Benny and Garth by their collars. Both of the latter were utterly dripping wet.

“Uh,” said Garth. “We're awfully sorry, but there was this … incident, where Benny made a bet with a mermaid.”

“Can't trust those gals for a second,” chuckled Benny. “Though they are cute.”

Thunder crashed again overhead as the archangels skirmished. The ground trembled. “Did you get the mermaid's tears?” Dean shouted.

Garth winked at Mrs. Tran and held up a small flask.

Kevin grabbed the flask from Garth and knelt down, setting the bowl he was carrying on the ground. He then pulled out yet another stone tablet. “You're sure this is the right tablet?” asked Dean, hunkering down next to him.

“Of course! This is the angel tablet,” said Mrs. Tran. “My son says so.”

“He has a tablet?” asked Cas.

“Can't you see it?” Dean asked him. 

Cas squatted down next to Dean reached out a hand, blindly grasping towards the object. “I am blind to it.”

“Wow. You think your Dad did this?”

Cas smiled bitterly. “Knowing my brothers and sisters, it was probably a good move.”

“Castiel, you need to get out of here,” said Kevin, picking up the flask. “Now.”

Cas nodded and stood up. 

“And...” Kevin started. “Can you get my mom away too? I mean, a safe distance?” He looked anxious.

“Don't worry,” said Cas, smiling down at him. “Dean?”

“I'll stay.” 

“And I'm stayin' too,” said Benny. “Don't wanna miss this.”

Cas picked up Ninazu. “Come. We have many books to color,” he told the child. And then he went to put two fingers to Mrs. Tran's forehead.

“I'm not sure-” Mrs. Tran. began.

“I'm staying here, Linda,” Garth promised. “I'll watch over Kevin.”

Mrs. Tran nodded, looking uncharacteristically fearful, but, before she could raise any more objections, blinked out to the sound of wingbeats.

Everyone cringed as the ground shook. The great crack in the ground widened as the archangels battled overhead. Dean grabbed the bowl to keep it from spilling over.

“Now or never, boy,” said Benny.

Kevin gulped. He carefully placed the tablet down on the ground, and, staring down at it, began to recite some words, at the same time dribbling the mermaid's tears into the bowl.

There was a pause. And then everybody cringed as a huge flash of light emitted from the bowl. There were ear-piercing screams, and Metatron and Azrael both fell out of the sky. The other angels, every single one of them, collapsed, moaning. There went up a call among the demon army, and all fighting ceased.

The desert, at last, was in silence.

“Worked,” grinned Dean. “Now you go,” he told Kevin.

“What, me?” asked Kevin.

“This is your deal, kiddo,” Garth told him.

Kevin swallowed hard, and then gathered up the tablet and stood. “Listen up, angels! I am the prophet, Kevin.”

Metatron had made it to her feet and stood, brushing off her posterior. Azrael leapt to his feet, his sunglasses askew. “You will pay for this, Prophet Kevin!” he shouted, and then raised his hand as if to smite Kevin, who cringed. But nothing happened. Azrael stared at his hand.

“Like I said, listen up!” yelled Kevin, as more of the low ranked angels struggled to their feet. “This tablet I'm holding is the word of God. I just used a spell from here to de-power you all for 24 hours. But believe me, there is much worse on this thing. _Much worse!_ ”

“Lies! He's not holding anything,” said Azrael. 

Dean grabbed the tablet from Kevin and held it up. He took it and smacked Azrael in the head with it, and then gave it back to Kevin as the archangel sank to his knees, rubbing his head. “He's got a tablet, your Father just fixed it so you guys can't see it. Dumbass.”

“Ow!” said Azrael.

“Idiot,” sniffed Metatron.

“You said this will wear off,” said Azrael. “What if we steal your tablet after I regain my power?”

“You'd have to steal the internet, Azrael,” said Cas, who had just reappeared. “We have just posted several of the anti-angel spells on the World Wide Web.”

“I knew it was a good idea to teach you how to use that laptop,” Dean told him.

“Ninazu helped,” Cas conceded. “Linda has decided he is a good candidate for medical school.”

Azrael was standing in front of Cas. “Castiel. You have given away our secrets? To the humans? You are a traitor to your race.”

“No. We are in service to humans. As we always should have been.”

Azrael let out a cry as Metatron suddenly yanked him back. Evidently, even de-powered, she was still incredibly strong. “And stay away from my little brother,” she warned. “Or you’re gonna get a smiting like you’ve never gotten before.”

“You won't stop me until you kill me,” Azrael warned.

“There has been enough killing, enough death,” Cas told him.

“I will call my legions!”

“You'll have to find them first,” warned Odin, who had just come thundering up on a monstrous eight-legged horse. “We just scattered them to the four winds.”

“This isn't the end,” Azrael warned.

“Dude, I think it is,” said Dean.

“Heads up!” yelled Benny. Dean grabbed Cas as Benny slammed his hand down on a blood sigil he'd just been drawing. Suddenly all the angels, with the exception of Cas and Metatron, vanished in a flash of light.

“You OK, Mets?” asked Odin, leaping down from his horse. 

“I'll be damned. It worked,” said Metatron, regarding the new tattoo on the inside of her wrist. “And it's quite stylish.”

“Your anti-banishing tatt worked too?” Dean asked Cas, not releasing him from the embrace.

Cas smiled, now nearly nose to nose with Dean. “Yes, this was unneeded. But not unwelcome.”

“Oh, just get it over with,” said Meg. She and Crowley were now standing nearby, Crowley playing with a colorful pinwheel.

Dean glowered at Meg, but then kissed Cas anyway.

“Well, ain't that cute,” said Benny. 

Crowley made to plant a kiss on Meg, who instead turned his pinwheel to ash. “Dammit!” he groused. “Do I get to kiss the angel at least?”

“No,” chorused both Dean and Cas.

“Where did you banish all the angels to, Benny?” asked Kevin.

“A little ol’ swamp in Louisiana,” said Benny. “They'll make friends. It's crawlin' with gators.”

 

“Dammit, dude, we won! Quit going all static-y.”

Cas smiled mildly at Dean as they walked through what had been a battlefield only hours before. It was still a hub of activity. Beings who weren't helping clean up were busy casting spells and enchantments to keep human eyes far away. 

“It's true, I am nervous about this tribunal.”

“It's still pretty soon after the war to be doing that kind of shit?” asked Dean. “I mean, unless there are gonna be beheadings. In which case, I approve, especially if it involves Crowley.”

Cas halted, gazing affectionately at Dean. “The battle is over, but now we must maintain the peace. Inias has made a study of the American Civil War and found-”

“Have you noticed that Inias is kind of a geek. Even for an angel.”

Cas's smile ripened into something absolutely angelic. “The best of us are quite inordinately fond of humans and their history,” he said. Dean leaned in, thinking maybe this called for another great battlefield kiss, but Cas, frustratingly, turned away. “Oh, here we are.”

Dean turned in the direction Cas was pointing, annoyed, but then he immediately set off in a run. “Sammy!” he shouted. He engulfed his little brother in a hug.

“Dean! Look! I have a dragon!” said Sam, excitedly waving at the scaly beast beside him.

“Uh, yeah, I kind of noticed,” said Dean as the beast uncoiled its neck and flapped its great scaly wings.

“It’s a _real dragon_ , Dean!”

“I hope you’re not gonna say you wanna keep him?” sighed Dean. He looked at his shoulder. “Hey, I got a bee?” Thaddeus buzzed proudly. “This is Tad.”

“I thought worker bees were female,” said Sam, squinting at the little bee.

Dean and the bee glared at Sam. “Don’t be small -minded, Sam,” said Dean. He squinted at his brother. “Are you okay, Sammy?”

“I got to ride a dragon, Dean,” said Sam, who suddenly sagged down to sit on the low fence that surrounded the housing development. “And before I was caught in a dream where you and Cas were dead, and then I had to play chess and drink really bad hot chocolate with a crazy archangel.”

Dean sat down next to his brother. “Yeah, you were being reckless with your queen.”

Sam stared for a moment. “Yeah. How did you know? Anyway. Dean. Can we get back to normal stuff now like ganking werewolves? Because I think I’ve had enough.”

Dean threw an affectionate arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Whatever you want, Sammy.”

Sam looked Dean up and down. “So what’s going on with you? Cas hinted at something but wouldn’t tell me.”

Dean looked around. “Oh. Huh. Where is Cas, anyway?”

“He went off somewhere. What's going on?”

Dean stared down at the ground. “Yeah, it’s kind of a funny story….”

“Hey, Dean! Sam!” yelled Ruth as she and Metatron strolled up.

“How you feeling?” Sam asked the archangel.

“Splendid! I find being de-powered is king of … liberating.”

“You seen Cas, Mets?” asked Dean.

“Over at the tribunal,” said Metatron, pointing towards the house.

Dean looked her up and down. “That’s started already? You not there too?”

“No interest,” she told him, reaching over to scratch the dragon's inquisitive snout.

“The dragon likes me!” Sam told Ruth. “Can I keep her?”

Ruth patted the dragon. “You boys have a back yard big enough?” she smiled.

“Uh. Maybe not.”

Dean squinted at Sam. “I think I got a new rule, Sammy. No dragons riding baby.”

“What if we take her back home to Naraka, and you guys visit whenever you like?” asked Ruth.

“That would be great!” said Sam.

“Now we're agreeing to go to hell?” asked Dean, mulling it over.

“We can have you over, and Bibi and Kevin can jam some more. Maybe after the wedding.” Ruth turned to Sam and Dean. “You guys are still coming to our wedding, right?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. “Is the dragon invited?” asked Sam.

 

“Can you take him, Hun Came?” asked Odin, taking a good pull of his beer. He sat the bottle down on the dining room table and sat back, wiping his mouth. “These microbrews, they're not bad,” he commented to Hades, who was beside him, nodding and turning up the flame that danced around his head.

The Mayan Lord of Xibalba glanced at the cowering Nergal, considering. “Hrm. The Room of Knives perhaps? We do need someone to assess their sharpness.”

“You can't do this to me!” wailed Nergal. He held up his hands. “I have terrible cuticles!”

“We can. And we will,” rasped Hel. 

“You're a lying sack of shit!” said Namtar, for which Hades whacked him on the back of the head, muttering, “Language.”

Cas nodded and made a gesture, and some attendants bore away a still protesting Nergal.

“Can I have a beer, Uncle Odin?” asked Namter.

“No,” smiled the god. “Maybe just one. Later. Who's next?”

“Crowley,” said Inias, reading from a tablet.

“You'll let me handle this one?” asked Cas. The rest of the parties at the table - Odin, Hel, Hades, Hun Came, Inias, Namtar and Bibi - all nodded in agreement.

A pair of angels escorted a very annoyed Crowley in front of the table. Meg wandered in after him, and settled herself down in an easy chair by the wall.

“Look, what's the meaning of this? I helped you!” Crowley protested. 

“We are grateful for your service, Crowley,” Cas told him. “But I'm afraid we need to decide what's best for you now that you're out of a job.”

“WHAT?”

Cas indicated the angel sitting beside him. “Inias will serve as the new Regent of Hell-“

“I’ll actually serve as temporary co-chairman of the Central Coordinating Committee, in a rotating term!” Inias supplied.

“Uh, thanks Inias,” said Cas, waving him off. “Um. Anyway. It's a tradition for rebellious angels. They need a new homeland, and I think they can effect some improvements. And with things up in the air, we need someone in there we can, well, trust.”

“I have made a detailed study of the pagan underworlds,” Inias piped up, “and I think that-”

“Oh, shut it, Nathan Sykes,” grumbled Crowley.

Inias looked at Cas, who shrugged.

“He's in The Wanted. It's a boy band,” Meg piped up.

“Thank you, Meg.”

“Were you in on this, Vampira?” Crowley demanded of Meg.

Meg stretched out, cat-like, in the chair. “I said I might stick around. To help Justin Bieber over there.”

“Why can't they just use my name?” Inias wondered.

“Because I think she totally _likes_ you, Inias!” said Namtar, which made Crowley chortle and Meg maybe sort of blush.

“Can we get back on track?” said Odin, holding up a now empty beer bottle. “I need to get out of here and get to the serious drinking.”

“I had another idea regarding your future role, Crowley,” said Cas. He sat forward, hands clasped. “You need work exercising that new conscience of yours. But no matter how much you change you will still be … _you_.”

“Can I have a drink too?” asked Crowley.

“No. But I was thinking, there is a place that might benefit from your unique … skill set. A place that has been plagued for untold years by a corrupt and craven bureaucracy. A place that, three times in recent memory, has hatched plots that would result in the diminution or even cessation of life on earth-”

“Holy crap! YOU WANT ME TO TAKE ON HEAVEN?” howled Crowley.

“That's the plan,” said Odin, chucking his beer bottle into a recycling bin.

“Think about it, Crowley,” said Hades. “You, in charge of heaven's host.”

The wheels in Crowley's mind had begun to turn. “Little old black-hearted me? Bossing around angels?”

“They need to be brought to heel,” stated Inias.

“Will you do it, demon?” rasped Hel.

Crowley grinned a grin, staring at Cas. “Well. That depends.” He arched an eyebrow. “Are we gonna seal the deal with a kiss?”

Crowley gasped to suddenly find himself in a passionate clench – with Hades, who had more or less teleported beside him. What followed, to the mixed wonder and amusement of those assembled, included much tongue. As well as bright blue flame. And then it was over, and Hades was back sitting behind the dining room table, casually examining his fingernails, and Crowley was on the floor, his hair still smoking. Crowley slowly propped himself up on his elbows to stare at the lord of the Greek underworld.

“Contracts,” said Hades. “They're a good thing.” He winked at Crowley.

 

Sam leaned back in his chair and tried to remember how long he had been there, in Asgard, drinking. 

It had been a long, long, long time.

They – he and Dean – were sitting at a table outside the hall of Valhalla, which was bedecked for a celebration. Some of the trimmings looked Norse, others more east Asian, and there were still more that could have been purchased at Walmart in the Midwest.

The guests were a similar crazy quilt: a surfeit of gods and demons, a heaping of departed spirits, a sprinkling of angels, and even a few humans, like him and Dean. Although Sam was no longer certain about his brother and the whole “human” thing. Which had been the impetus for much of the alcohol consumption.

The monks who had trained Ruth were there, although Sam had not spoken to them, as they all seemed glued to their Bluetooth devices. Isaiah sat glumly at their table, though he occasionally raised his head and tried to flirt with a passing girl or goddess.

Bibi’s side of the family was a riot, all silk saris and fiery eyes and blue skin and many, many jutting arms. Sam had been introduced to several, some of whom seemed familiar from mythology classes or the Ramayana or the various Bollywood flicks he’d seen back in college. They spent a lot of time on the dance floor, all of them.

Kevin had performed alongside Namtar (who played violin) in a string quartet, and it was difficult to determine whose mother was prouder, although both boys had seemed more eager to throw off their jackets and play fetch with Odin’s wolves. Kevin, for the first time in Sam’s memory seemed really young, which made Sam feel somehow old.

A high point of the afternoon had been when a pale but still very alive Samandriel was briefly wheeled out to join the festivities: an event that caused more of a commotion than the reception line. But Sam had paid more attention to Alfie’s attendant. Cas claimed she had been stripped of all her angelic powers in penance, but Sam still thought Naomi looked pretty damned evil. Angels, oddly enough, seemed more forgiving of her. He nearly didn’t recognize Inias, newly appointed King of Hell (or committee chairman, or whatever the hell he had explained) dressed up once again in a suit.

The happy couple had chosen some old Fleetwood Mac song as their first dance. Dean had been dreading this moment, as he claimed Bibi had a taste for terrible music, but in the end approved, probably because he had always had a crush on Stevie Nicks. Ruth and Bibi were evidently both people who _really_ danced, and didn’t just sort of hug and shuffle their feet, like you do. To Dean’s annoyance, Meg had then oozed over to their table to ask Cas for a dance, which Cas, to Dean’s further ire, had shyly accepted. Dean’s temper was not improved some minutes later when Crowley (who had spent the afternoon avoiding a fully recharged Metatron as best he could) cut in, in order to dance with Cas himself. Dean barreled over intending to cut in with extreme prejudice, and the new Chief Administrator of Heaven retired, as he suddenly found himself surrounded by a swarm of unfriendly bees. 

Dean was a “hug and shuffle your feet” type of slow dancer, but Cas didn’t seem to mind in the least, serenely tucking his head into the side of Dean’s neck and swaying to the soft, slow music. They looked as happy as…. Well, as happy as an interspecies romance could be, Sam guessed.

Sam still wondered if his brother counted as human any more.

“Thanks for coming!” He turned his head to gaze blearily at the female person who had just kissed his cheek. 

“Oh. Hey. Yeah. Ruth. I’m really, really drunk.”

“Congratulations,” she said, straightening up. She was dressed, quite uncharacteristically, in a flowing green silk sari. 

“Your brother quite enjoying himself?” Bibi asked Dean as they shook hands. 

“He gets like this,” Dean laughed. “This was quite a ceremony.”

Bibi scratched the back of his neck and put an arm around Ruth. “Yeah. My people – we do it up right. You invite the whole neighborhood and go on for days.”

“I could get used to it,” Dean confessed. He looked between the happy couple. “So, you guys taking off? Honeymoon and whatever?”

Ruth’s eyes were shining. “Yeah, we’re going skiing!”

“Oh that sounds cool. Uh.” Dean searched his mind for where rich people toddled off to when they were skiing. “Aspen? Or, uh, Switzerland?”

“Niflheim!” gushed Bibi. 

“Oh….”

“It’s their frozen underworld,” Ruth explained. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get it either. Anyways, Bibi is going to teach me snowboarding.”

Bibi was kissing the top of her head. “You will take to it as an angel to being dickish.”

The three chortled, and then Bibi and Ruth took their leave.

Dean settled down next to his brother. “Man, I feel like I never wanna leave this place. I just wanna grab one of Odin’s horses and ride around and explore, you know?”

Sam trained bleary eyes at his brother. “So you're a Norse god? Like literally?” This conversation had been going on, in fits and starts, since the brothers were reacquainted on the battlefield in Barstow.

Dean thought he had never seen Sam make quite that face. “Actually. I'm part of the Norse pantheon. I guess. But I couldn’t name the Nine Worlds if you hit me with the Word of God.”

“Where's your hammer?”

Dean looked honestly contrite. Although not _too_ contrite. “Look, I should have said something when Odin brought it up....”

“Your new bestie. Odin, huh? Okay, great.”

“Sam-”

“Dean, look, you can do what you want, but you do realize-”

“I'm someone I used to hunt. Yeah.” Dean sighed. “Sammy, you gotta understand this just kind of happened....”

“Yeah, it’s okay because you're not snarfing blood with some demon girl, you're just being a Viking pagan dude with your angel boyfriend.” Sam said this because it was currently okay to say this, because he was currently very, very drunk.

“Okay, he's not- Well, actually he is.” Dean suddenly looked determined. “And, I wanna …. you know. Not mess it up. Like I've messed up pretty much everything.”

“I'm supposed to respect your life choices now?”

“Dean! Hey, am I interruptin’?” asked Benny, who had just sauntered up.

Dean stood up again, admittedly relieved to be extricated from this conversation. “Hey, Benny, no, not at all.” Sam gave Benny the stink-eye.

“I was headin’ out,” Benny told Dean.

“Oh, so soon?” asked Dean.

“Benny, I’ve been looking all over for you,” said Metatron, who was marching up along with Kali. The goddess gave Benny an inquisitive glance. “Have you met Kali?”

“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Benny told Kali. 

“What an enchanting accent,” said Kali, extending a hand. “Are you from the American South?”

“Louisiana, born and bred, darlin’.” Kali raised an eyebrow at Metatron, who looked smug.

Metatron put a hand on Kali's arm. “So, Benny, Kali wanted to go riding, but I was just not in the mood, and I told her I bet we could persuade _you_ to take out a couple of Odin’s horses.”

Benny glanced from Metatron to Kali. He seemed to realize, with a start, that he was still holding the goddess’s hand, which he dropped. “Oh. Well. It would be my distinct pleasure, ma’am.”

“I thought you were just leaving, Benny?” Dean interjected, as he could not resist any opportunity to be a jerk.

“Did I say that?” asked Benny, extending an elbow towards Kali. “I must’ve been out in the sun too long.” Kali slid a hand into his elbow and they wandered off in a random direction.

“They’re not even headed towards the stables,” Dean pointed out. He rounded on Metatron. “This is some kind of girlie plot, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a girl, I’m an archangel.” Metatron shrugged. “Kali had been moping around, so Odin took pity on her and we brought back her son, Ganesha. But then she continued to mope. As I have learned from a close study of Dr. Sexy MD, this sort of behavior is often caused by relationship difficulties.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Benny too. That’s guy’s been moping around since I beheaded his girlfriend.”

Metatron turned to stare at Dean. “Dean Winchester. You are a most interesting human being.”

“Uh, thanks. So, you're not interested in staying around and taking charge in heaven?”

“No interest at all,” said Metatron. “Leave it to that demon. Heaven is just not the place for the likes of me. Now this place,” she indicated Valhalla. “This place is fine.”

“I don't wanna leave,” laughed Dean

“Really?” asked Metatron, who gave him one of those uncomfortable soul-stares.

Dean shrugged and cast his eyes towards Sam, who was now sitting with his head drooping back, snoring contentedly. “Speaking of getting home, I think that one has had enough.”

Metatron hovered over Sam. “He is having a contented dream. You could leave him be.”

“Naw, I need to find the angel and-“

Metatron snapped her fingers, and Dean found himself suddenly face to face with a very disoriented Cas.

Cas’s expression quickly melted from sheer panic to relief. “Dean? Oh, Dean.”

“Don’t worry. I was looking for you when Metatron zapped you here,” Dean explained, as he suddenly realized why Cas was upset.

“Metatron?” asked Cas, looking around. The archangel was nowhere to be seen.

“Huh. She must have zapped out.” Dean grabbed a couple of Cas’s belt loops and tugged him nearer. He looked his angel up and down: brand new suit looking like it needed a pressing, tie hopelessly askew, and hair sticking every which way. “How do you do this? You looked fine when we left the motel this morning.” Dean reached up and carefully straightened the tie, finishing up with a kiss. 

“Kali’s son Ganesha says I possess a rumpled aura!” Cas told him.

“What? Anyway, I was thinking we could zap Sammy home, he seems pretty wasted-“

“DEAN!” 

Sam sputtered awake at Odin’s bellow, blinking around in confusion.

“Yeah, Odin,” said Dean.

“I need a favor, son.”

Dean shrugged. “Anything.”

“Metatron, she's getting itchy feet again, so now that the danger posed by Azrael has diminished, she's going to take off on another tour of the universe.”

“Hey, I was just talking to her. Sounds cool.”

Odin stood tall and beamed. “And she's invited _me_ along.”

“Odin!” said Dean, holding up his hand. Odin high-fived him. “Dude. Good work.”

Odin leaned forward, clapping Dean on the shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. “But there is one thing. We might be gone a while, and as you know, things are still a bit up in the air. There's still angels out there, loyal to Azrael, and I expect they'll be up to some mischief.”

“I think Cas and I … and my brother, we'll take care of things.”

“I consider it my obligation, Odin,” said Cas. 

“I'm thinking a little more selfishly.” Odin spread his arms out wide. “I'm thinking of my kingdom: of Valhalla. I couldn't countenance running off without, well, having a steady hand in charge. Much like Lord Yamaraja knew Naraka would be in good hands with Vibhishana.”

Sam sat forward, blearily rubbing his eyes. “Wait, Odin, are you asking my brother-”

“Now!” Odin interrupted, waving a hand. “I know you're undecided about all this transformation, Dean. I can well understand. But think of this, what if you just try it on for size, while I'm away? And if it doesn't work out, when I come back, we'll puzzle out a way to get you back to where you were.”

“Huh,” said Dean. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Odin? Can we get this in writing?”

“So that will be acceptable, Dean?” pleaded Odin. 

Dean looked around at Sam. 

“Go ahead,” grumbled Sam. “You know you want to.” Dean bounced up and down on his toes, nodding furiously.

“Thank you, Dean. Now I know the place will be in good hands.” Odin grinned and strode off.

Dean collapsed into a chair, and then yanked Cas down to sit in his lap. Cas looked bewildered for a moment, and then relaxed contentedly into Dean. It was awfully cute. And completely annoying.

“I don’t _believe_ you, Dean. Now you’re _housesitting Valhalla?_ ” Sam croaked.

Dean was using his fingers to bring a sense of order to Cas’s perpetually mussed hair. “Aw, Sammy, you heard him! It’s just for a little while.”

Sam glared at Dean. “And what do gods consider ‘a little while?’”

 

_Some years down the road…._

Sam stared down from the front porch at the child with the wide green eyes clinging to Cas’s hand. “The girls are around in back,” he said.

“Gabriel, would you like to go see your cousins?” Cas asked the boy. The child nodded enthusiastically, and Cas, with a slight inclination of his head to Sam, led him around to the back yard.

Sam shook his head. The boy had shown up some years previous to this, as a babe in Cas’s arms. Dean had explained that Cas had been thinking very hard about a child, and subsequently had developed a migraine headache. After a few days had passed, Cas’s head had split open and the baby had appeared. And the process was every bit as sloppy and disgusting as it had sounded. 

Vibhishana had simply explained that sometimes, when you were talking of gods, _these things happened_. Which didn't sound much like an explanation at all, but Sam had read enough mythology to know that it was correct. Bibi sent over Kali’s son, Ganesha, who aside from being Lord of Hosts and God of Beginnings was also an Oxford-educated medical doctor (in a previous incarnation), and something of an expert on angel physiology. After he'd gotten Cas’s head safely patched up and the angel had returned, more or less, to his senses, Ganesha had pronounced both father and son to be in perfect health. And Dean, once he was over fretting about Cas, rather enthusiastically accepted the child as his own. As it was, the tow-headed, green eyed and freckle-faced boy gave every evidence that somehow, though Sam didn’t really like to speculate how, he was indeed Dean’s true-born son.

Who happened to be part angel. 

And part pagan god.

And all Winchester.

As for Cas, from then on, and upon Dr. Ganesha's advice, he attempted to stop thinking too deeply about children.

Sam reached into a cooler and dug out a couple of beers, one of which he handed over to his brother. Sam and Dean sat down on the porch steps, enjoying the frosty beverages. Sam also pulled out a shrink-wrapped CD from his pocket and tossed it at Dean. “From Garth,” he explained.

Dean eyed the cover, showing a handsome young Asian man poised over a cello. “Kevin's done good for himself. Did you listen?”

“We're not super big on classical, but I figured you could play it for Odin. When he gets back. _If_ he gets back.”

“He'll get back,” smiled Dean. “We got a postcard from him and Mets. From Betelgeuse.”

Sam frowned over his beer. “OK, how to you send a postcard from Betelgeuse?”

“Put a stamp on it, drop it on the box.”

Sam regarded his brother, wondering when these kinds of conversations had become commonplace. Probably no worse than debating how to gank a revenant, he supposed. “Anyway. Thanks for the help assembling the swing set last night,” said Sam, arching his back. “It was a great surprise for them.” 

“Hey, any time,” smiled his brother. “My nieces are cute. Even though my brother is still a bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“The kids like it?”

“I can’t get ‘em off it.”

“How’s the law practice going?”

“Well, the swing set was part of the fee for the last class action. And I think I can finish paying off the mortgage.”

“Sweet.” Dean paused. He side-eyed his brother. “And … the divorce?”

Sam stared across the lawn. “Should be final when we sign the next round of papers.”

“Well. That’s … good, right?”

Sam shook his head. Really, he'd said all he could say, and more. And Dean had been there, god love him, every time he needed to vent or cry into his beer. “The apple pie life? It’s not exactly … simple.” Dean nodded sympathetically. “Anyway, what about you?”

“Aw, same old same old.” Dean tipped back a beer. “Uncovered another flock of rogue angels.”

“Dean!” said Sam. 

“It's all good. Cas had Alfie go talk to them.”

“He … _Samandriel_ talked to them, Dean?”

“Yeah, the little guy.... Who knew? I always thought he was wasted at the Wiener Hut.” He grinned. “Anyway, I think they're all heading to the studio for wing tattoos.”

“You give that chick a lot of business.”

“Yeah, I think she's opening a franchise. She asked me for your card.” Dean suddenly paused as the unmistakable sound of his firstborn's name came drifting on the wind. “Uh-oh,” he said, as he and Sam grabbed beer bottles and headed around to the back.

“Gabriel!” scolded Cas.

The child stared up, batting lovely green eyes at Cas, while his cousins, darling chestnut-haired twin girls, sped around and squealed behind him, chasing little flickering pastel-colored butterflies which popped like soap bubbles as the girls caught them.

“What's going on with your son?” Dean asked Cas.

“He's _my_ son now?” asked Cas, wheeling on Dean. “I didn't teach him that.”

“Uh. _I_ may have, actually,” Dean confessed.

“And you know it's impossible for me to properly discipline him when he looks … like that.”

Dean grinned and grabbed his son, slinging him on a hip. “Yeah, that look. He gets that from his uncle.”

Sam produced a face that was much the opposite of the puppy dog eyes. “Now it’s _my_ fault?”

“I think we can blame you,” said Dean.

“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” Cas dead-panned.

Sam threw a small bitchface, just for good measure, at his nephew. He thought for not the first time that the boy looked like Cas with Dean’s coloring, though he acted far too much like his namesake. He just really hoped the boy didn't grow up to act like Uncle Lucifer. Did other people have to worry about stuff like this? Seriously. “Maybe we should head inside. There's pie.”

“What? Really?” scoffed Dean.

“One of the benefits of the apple pie lifestyle. There is really pie inside,” said Sam. 

“There is never _really_ pie, Sam.”

“And ice cream, Sam?” asked Cas, his tone gone dreamy.

“Garbage gut,” said Dean, throwing an arm around Cas and giving him a kiss on the temple.

“And ice cream too. Let's go inside,” said Sam, taking the hands of two giggling little girls, and leading the whole motley bunch inside the quiet house behind the white picket fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes: no, I honestly don't know what happened with Garth and Benny and the mermaids, and they won't tell me. If anyone thinks they know, I'd be interested. Also, thanks as always for the comments and kudos along the way, as that really keeps me going.


End file.
